


(I'm So) Human

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Every chapter is a dodie song, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is sad, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, geralt has mental health issues, geralt is sad, i'M SAD, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23243908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: From the moment Jaskier lays eyes on the white-haired stranger in Posada, he's mesmerized. The man is a mystery he can't wait to solve, and for twenty-two years he finds himself by his side, trying to find out who Geralt of Rivia really, truly is. Eventually, he gives the Witcher his heart, hoping that, maybe, this time, it won't get broken.From the moment Geralt first sees the blue-eyed Bard, he tries his best to keep his distance. To not corrupt Jaskier's light. Still, he realizes the Bard changes the way the Witcher sees himself, makes him realize that maybe he's not the monster he's always believed himself to be. Eventually, he gives the Bard his heart, and hopes that, maybe, he won't break Jaskier's.And then he makes the worst mistake of his life, and he's left to pick up the pieces of their friendship, somehow.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 56
Kudos: 271





	1. (I'm So) Human

**Author's Note:**

> This song features lyrics from Human by Dodie after every paragraph. It's a beautiful song and you should totally listen to it, tbh.
> 
> As for Wasteland 2, I know I haven't updated in a while, but my beta is busy and I don't want to push her too much. I already don't deserve her, honestly.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

The first time he sees the white-haired stranger in the corner of the tavern, he’s mesmerized. Absentmindedly, he picks a cup of ale or wine or _whatever_ from a passing tray, the woman holding it invisible to him as he keeps his eyes trained on the man.

“Love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.” _Great one, Jaskier._ The stranger stays quiet, piquing the Bard’s interest even more. _It’s always the silent ones that have the most to tell._

More silence. _Suit yourself then, I’m not giving up._ “No one else here has hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance. Except” he moves until he’s in the man’s line of sight “for you.”

He sits down, and notices the yellow eyes, rolling in annoyance. _A reaction. Good._ The golden irises make a beautiful contrast with the white of the hair and the black of the armour. Like dandelions sprouting from snow, surrounded by rocks, unaware that spring has not yet started. _I’ll have to remember that for my next song._

He cocks his head, as he sees the two swords lying next to the stranger, and he can practically taste the lyrics and notes of his next ballad on his tongue. _This man will have so many stories to tell._

It is then that he realizes it’s not just a man he’s sitting in front of, but a Witcher. And not just any Witcher, either. One he’s heard a thing or two about, as a matter of fact. Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.

He licks his lips, a nervous tick he used to be chastised for when he was young. “Oh, _fun._ ”

_I wanna pick you up and scoop you out._

He follows Geralt out of the tavern, along the path to Dol Blathanna, where the elves used to live. Sure, he gets punched in his stomach by the Witcher, but when has he ever let a minor setback stop him, really? _I’ll take that over getting pelted with food, any day._

The Witcher doesn’t answer any of his inquiries, though, only granting him a disinterested _‘Hmm’_ once or twice. Still, there are other ways to get a story.

Jaskier sighs, as his feet start to hurt and the blistering sun hurts the back of his neck. He almost – _almost_ starts to regret the decision to follow the Witcher around, but he figures doing so will already make a better song than anything he’s written for the past few months.

And maybe, just maybe, if he can get some more information about the Witcher’s past adventures, somehow, or about the monsters he’s fought, Jaskier can finally start earning some money from his music. _Like everyone in my life has said I wouldn’t._

_I want the secrets your secrets haven’t found._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been a few hours since he’s met Geralt, and he’s full of inspiration and ideas and _music_ as they walk back to Posada. He’s strumming his new instrument, and he silently apologizes to his old, now broken lute, but _gods what a beauty this one is._

Jaskier’s ribcage hurts when he breathes too deeply, and he’s got a headache from the stone projectile that the Silvan hit him with, but he’s singing his ideas out to the quiet mountains around him – and to the one on the horse behind him.

“Where’s your newfound respect?” Jaskier looks back when he hears the gravelly voice, still not really used to the sound of it. He can’t help but notice the way the light reflects on the Witcher’s hair, the way his yellow eyes complement the sun above them beautifully. He shakes the thoughts away, shrugs.

“Respect doesn’t make history.” Because that’s what he needs to do – _make history._ He’s low on money, on supplies, on self-confidence, and the way he’s been pelted with food and insults every day for the past week tells him he’s not going to get the coin he so desperately needs unless he writes the best song anyone on the Continent has ever written, and spreads it around as quickly as possible. _This is that song._

Not only that, but he’s seen the way people look at Geralt, he knows how low on coin the Witcher is. They both need the fame and the money.

 _The perfect symbiotic relationship._ The Bard sings the praises of the Witcher, who, in turn, provides him with new song material. _If only Geralt would realize that._

And maybe, just maybe, Jaskier would find the friend he’s been missing all his life. Someone who believes in him the way his family never has. He turns back around, and starts walking again, singing the foundations of his new song to the empty mountains around them.

A few heartbeats pass, and he can’t help but smile as he hears the clopping of Roach’s hooves behind him again.

_Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend._

That evening, they’re sitting in a tavern again, a little ways outside Posada, in a corner, as Geralt seems to prefer. _I should remember that._

The Witcher is counting his coin, and Jaskier pretends not to see how little there is, as he’s scribbling his new song in his notebook. Geralt orders two more ales with money he doesn’t really have, and Jaskier doesn’t protest.

They sit in comfortable silence, only interrupted once in a while by a stray comment from the Bard or a question that doesn’t get answered. _Please just talk to me._ He doesn’t mind the lack of response _that_ much, though, as he’s already glad Geralt hasn’t told him to fuck off yet, or straight-up left. _Thank the gods he’s still here with me._

He looks at the way the candlelight dances across the Witcher’s skin, old scars casting long shadows over his face. Jaskier tried asking about them earlier, but Geralt had just frowned, and the Bard had sensed that he didn’t want to talk about them. So he hasn’t asked again.

Yellow eyes meet his and he looks away, gazing around the room as he takes a sip of stale ale, eyes returning to the Witcher once he senses Geralt isn’t looking at him anymore.

He feels warm, fuzzy, and he frowns at the pint. It’s only his second, and he usually doesn’t get drunk this fast. He looks back at Geralt, and the fuzzy feeling increases. He hopes the Witcher won’t leave without him tomorrow. _Don’t hope too much, Jaskier._

Yet, he doesn’t want this feeling he gets every time he looks at Geralt to go away. Not just yet, anyway.

_Call me the one, this night just can’t end._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been a month since he’s met the Witcher, and they’re in the woods, halfway between two towns, both of the villages too far away to reach before midnight. It’s okay, though. Jaskier’s used to sleeping outside by now.

He lays his bedroll down as Geralt lights the fire, the heat barely managing to chase away the chill of the early autumn night. Jaskier smiles as he remembers the time he tried to build a fire, two weeks ago. Geralt had barely managed to stop him from burning down the entire forest, and the Witcher had told him he’s never _ever_ allowed to make a fire _again._

Geralt now sits down heavily on a log, his hands fumbling with the straps of his armour, eyes weary and annoyed. _Gods, I’m tired of seeing him struggle every night._

Jaskier rushes over, nimble fingers undoing the straps and knots quite easily. Geralt scoffs, his hand coming up to push the Bard’s away. “I can take off my armour perfectly fine by myself, thanks.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, standing upright and putting his hands on his hips. “I know that, dear Witcher, but you take forever to do it. So, let me help, and we’ll be able to eat three hours earlier than if you were to do it by yourself. I’m starving.”

Geralt looks at him for a moment, yellow eyes calculating, flickering in the light of the fire. Finally, after a staring contest that leaves Jaskier weak at the knees, the Witcher looks at the ground. “Hmm.”

The Bard takes that as permission, and bends forward again, undoing the straps, ignoring the way his fingers itch to reach his hand up and touch Geralt’s skin, to brush over the old scars and the shadows the light of the flames cast.

He glances up, and sees the Witcher’s gaze on him, a strange look in the golden eyes. Jaskier cocks his head, letting go of the armour and placing his hands on his knees as he lifts up his eyebrows. “What?”

Geralt looks back at the fire, the weird glint in his eyes suddenly gone, face even. “Nothing.”

Jaskier frowns, but continues his work after a moment or two, in a silence that isn’t entirely comfortable.

_Will you share your soul with me?_

“Come on, Geralt, surely you have some interesting stories to tell me.” Jaskier has his notebook in his lap, pencil ready to write down any sparse detail the Witcher might give him.

Geralt shrugs. “It’s monster hunting, Jaskier, it’s not as interesting as everyone thinks.” He smirks at the annoyed look Jaskier gives him. _Oh, you bastard, you just love aggravating me, don’t you?_

Geralt continues: “You get the contract, you find the monster, you kill it, you get money sometimes. That’s all there is to it.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, and rolls his eyes, making a show of putting the pencil and the notebook away. “Really, Geralt, if you won’t tell me anything, then I’ll just have to follow you around some more.”

He sneaks a look at the Witcher, and sees him frown. He waits a few seconds, insecure, hands fidgeting a little, and relief washes over him as Geralt doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell him to fuck off or go away.

Instead, the Witcher shrugs and stands up, spreading his bedroll on the ground near the fire, back turned to Jaskier. “You should sleep, it’s getting late.”

The Bard hesitates. “Right, right. I’ll uh… yeah.” He lays down on the other side of the fire, hands tucked beneath his head. He looks at Geralt’s back, the slow rise and fall of the broad side with every deep breath of the Witcher, lulling him to sleep, as he tries to imagine a story for each and every one of the Witcher’s scars.

_Unzip your skin and let me have a see._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been half a year since he’s met the Witcher, and they arrive at an inn, where the innkeeper informs them there is only one room left, the town unusually busy with the upcoming Spring Festival. Geralt shrugs and takes it, walking away as the other man tries to say something, his voice dying in his throat as Jaskier looks at him apologetically.

As they walk up the stairs, the Bard eyes the bar that covers the entirety of the ground floor, trying to calculate if there are enough people there to make a performance worth his time. Some rich-looking men walk in, and he decides in favour of making some coin tonight.

He follows Geralt through the hall to their shared room. This isn’t the first time they’ve slept in the same room, since they always seem low on coin, and inns are an expensive luxury. Neither of them considers it a problem. This time, however, it’s a bit different. There’s only one bed. _Oh no._

He opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. His mind is blank and, for once, he can’t find his words. Geralt doesn’t seem fazed, though, and starts taking his armour off. He looks at Jaskier. “Are you going to help me or are you just going to keep staring at me?”

 _I could stare at you for the rest of my life, Witcher._ He sputters, and drops his stuff in the corner unceremoniously, rushing over to Geralt to help him with the straps that are harder to reach. The silence lasts for a minute or two, until Jaskier finally remembers how to speak. “Uh… Geralt.”

The Witcher looks at him in annoyance. “What?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, glancing around the room, keeping his eyes trained on anything but Geralt. “There’s only one bed.”

Silence. He finally looks up at the Witcher, who frowns at him. “And?”

The Bard notices that his fumbling fingers are slightly shaking, and he lowers his hands, balling them by his sides. _Keep it together, Jaskier._ “Who’s going to sleep on the floor?”

Geralt snorts, looking at him incredulously, as if he’s just asked the most stupid question in the world. _He looks at me like that a lot._ The Witcher shakes his head slightly. “No one is.”

“Oh.” Jaskier nods, hands coming up again to continue their work. “Okay.”

_Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend._

He comes back from his performance later that night, setting his lute down in the corner, dunking a bag full of coin next to it, the clinking of metal loud in the quiet room as it hits the wood. _But oh so satisfying._

Geralt is already fast asleep, and Jaskier pulls of his doublet as silently as possible, changing into his night clothes quickly. The only light in the room comes from the fireplace, and he pokes at the low flames for a moment, pushing them back to life. He turns around, startling as he meets golden eyes.

He winces. “Sorry for waking you up.”

Geralt lays back down, pulling the sheets closer as Jaskier slips into the bed. It’s big enough for the both of them but his heart still flutters at the close proximity to Geralt’s bare back, the light of the fire dancing across the muscles. “It’s fine, Jaskier, go to sleep”

The Bard doesn’t close his eyes, though, and he simply watches as Geralt’s breath deepens again. He resists the urge to stretch his fingers out, to cross the four-inch gap between them into unchartered territory. Surely, Geralt wouldn’t appreciate it if he did.

So he watches, unable to close his eyes, shivering slightly as he realizes the Witcher’s hogging all the blankets. _You beautiful, annoying bastard._

He takes in every small freckle, every old scar on Geralt’s back, the flames in the hearth slowly dimming as the hours progress, making themselves at home in his heart instead.

_Call me the one, this night just can’t end._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been ten years since he’s met the Witcher, and he sighs as he throws his arms up in exasperation. “It’s a _Siren,_ Geralt! That would make for an _amazing_ song, why won’t you let me come along?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Because you would take out your earplugs to hear the Siren’s song, and you would die. That’s why.” He cuts off Jaskier’s rebuttal. “Don’t tell me you weren’t already planning on doing that, I know you.”

Jaskier steps in front of the Witcher as he makes a move to walk out of their shared room at the inn. “Well, if you know that’ll happen, then does it really matter if I do it? You’ll know to hold me back!”

Geralt sighs and pushes the Bard aside. “It _does_ matter because I don’t want to have to rescue you while I’m fighting a Siren. I’ll need to put all my focus into not dying myself, so I won’t be able to keep you safe as well.”

The Witcher opens the door, only for it to be pushed shut again by Jaskier. The Bard ignores the way Geralt snarls at him, determined to come along. “I’ll be fine, Geralt. I’m sure the Siren’s song won’t even be that alluring. I mean, you’ve heard it before, you haven’t died yet.”

Geralt groans a little, and takes the front of Jaskier’s doublet in his hand, pushing the Bard against the wall. Jaskier tries to ignore how close they are, how he only has to move forward an inch to bridge the gap between them, how he’s fantasised about being in this position so many times. _Stop it, Jaskier._

Geralt sneers at him, his breath fanning over the Bard’s skin, setting fire to his soul. “I didn’t die because I’m a _Witcher,_ and you’re _not._ End of discussion.” And with that, he’s gone in the blink of an eye, the door slamming behind him, leaving Jaskier alone in the room.

_I’m so human._

He startles as Geralt throws his bag down next to him, sitting down heavily as he orders a drink from the barmaid. Jaskier can immediately tell something went wrong. There’s fire in the golden eyes, and the Witcher looks like absolute hell, white hair drenched in salty water, his clothes torn in several places, deep, barely healed wounds visible on his skin.

“So, how’d it go?” The Bard pushes a plate of food he had already ordered toward Geralt, and the Witcher shoves it away, brow creased and angry. _Something definitely went wrong._

“Like shit.” He downs his ale in one go, slamming it back down on the table. He seems determined to leave it at that, probably hoping Jaskier will stop asking questions. _He should know better by now._

“How come? Did something happen?” He gets no response, and worry flares up in his chest. He ignores the way Geralt’s hand clenches on the table, how a muscle pulls in his jaw. “Geralt, what happened? Talk to me.” His hand fidgets with the hem of his shirt, and he starts to ramble, nervousness in the pit of his stomach. “I mean, please do tell me, you didn’t even let me come along to listen to the Siren’s song and-“

He flinches as the Witcher slams his fist on the table, a hush falling over the crowded room, picking up again after a few seconds.

“That’s exactly what happened,” Geralt hisses, “some idiots almost got themselves and me almost killed because they were so desperate to hear the Siren’s song.” He points his finger at Jaskier, accusing. “They were just as stupid as you, and you’re very lucky I didn’t let you come along or you would’ve died.”

It’s silent for a few seconds, before Geralt stands up abruptly, his hands flat on the table. “Next time I tell you you’re not allowed to follow me, you. Fucking. Listen. Understand?”

Jaskier nods shakily, and the Witcher turns around, stomping upstairs, leaving Jaskier alone at the table.

_We’re just human._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been sixteen years since he’s met the Witcher, and he finds him fishing in a town called Rinde. He looks tired, and Jaskier can’t help but feel concern for the mania the Witcher seems to exude. The dark circles under the golden eyes are deep, and his movement jagged, forced, as if he has too much energy yet none at the same time. _And let’s not forget the stupidity of the idea of asking a djinn for a nap._

He’s surprised when Geralt tells him he can’t sleep, a million different ways to help him get some rest crossing his mind, ranging from ‘ _let’s get a hammer’_ to ‘ _I’ll wash your hair and sing you to sleep’._ Still, he doesn’t say anything of the sorts, instead opting to focus on the recent heartbreak he went through. _You will manage, but I’m not sure I will if you tell me to go._

That’s when Geralt insults his singing, and betrayal and confusion courses through his veins. _This is somehow worse than you telling me to leave_. He stutters, hands shaky as he points his finger at the Witcher. “ _You_ need a _nap_!”

His brain short-circuits again, when Geralt finds the amphora. “What’s that?”

The next few minutes are a blur, everything happening all at once, and in the end he’s left gasping on the forest floor, blood leaking from his mouth. He reaches back, trying to find Geralt, trying to find his anchor in this world, and feels a warm hand on his shoulder, calming him down.

_Lean for me and I’ll fall back._

Geralt helps him on Roach, climbing on the mare behind Jaskier, strong arms around him, holding onto the reigns. He spurs the horse on, and they ride to the town, in search of the elven doctor. Jaskier gasps and wheezes, more and more strength leaving him with every ragged breath, with every drop of blood falling from his lips.

He leans back a bit, finding comfort in Geralt’s broad chest, the arms tightening around him slightly. His mind wanders, as the trees become a blur around him, to his most recent heartbreak.

He could’ve – _should’ve_ known the Countess would leave him. They hadn’t exactly had the most stable of relationships. Still, it hurts. Being rejected over and over again always does. Usually, he’s gone by the morning, before he has the chance to develop something deeper than infatuation, before the other person can break his heart.

The only exception had been the Countess, and look where that got him. Back into misery, back into insecurity and hurt.

Back into Geralt’s life. The only other person he has exposed his heart to, and the only person who hasn’t crushed it. Something flutters in his chest, and he writes it off to the blood he’s coughing up again, before leaning back into Geralt’s chest.

_You’ll fit so nicely, you’ll keep me intact._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been sixteen years since he’s met the Witcher, and he’s never seen the Geralt act so unbelievably _stupid_.

“Are you perhaps short of a marble?” He walks sideways as he tries to keep up with Geralt, who’s stalking back to the house Jaskier just escaped from. On his way to save that terrifying Witch, for some reason. _Great, typical Geralt. Fucking idiot._

Chireadan, the elven doctor, grabs Geralt’s arm, earning a pointed glare from the Witcher. “You have to go in there, don’t you? I recognize the look, I know how you feel.” _Look? What look?_

“You’re making me uncomfortable.” _Same here._ Geralt tears his arm away from the doctor’s loose grip, and starts walking towards the house again.

Jaskier has to run to catch up with him. “Do not tell me this is actually the moment you’ve decided to care about someone other than yourself.” He stands in front of Geralt, and the Witcher finally stops.

Geralt looks at him, cocking his head, something Jaskier can’t quite identify in his yellow eyes. “She saved your life, Jaskier, I can’t let her die.” With that, he pushes past the Bard, back into the house.

Jaskier sighs, and considers following Geralt for a moment, but ultimately decides against it. Really, what good can he do against such powerful magic? His shoulders sag, and he tries to push back the uncomfortable feeling in his chest. _Surely, Geralt will be fine, he’s faced worse threats before._

He’ll let the Witcher handle it, he decides. It’s best for him to stay outside, to make sure that no one, not even he, gets in Geralt’s way.

The building collapses behind him.

_Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend._

Geralt is alive, and Jaskier can’t take his eyes off him, only looking away when the Witcher meets his gaze. They’re sitting in a tavern in Rinde, and the room around them is noisy. A lively crowd, but Jaskier doesn’t feel like performing tonight. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s side for even a second, scared the Witcher might disappear if he looks away, back to the Witch, or dead after all.

At some point Geralt grows annoyed at Jaskier’s quietness and staring. “Djinn got your tongue?” He laughs at his own stupid joke as he takes a sip of ale, and the Bard blinks, trying to clear his mind.

“No, sorry. Just… a lot happened today, is all.” He looks down at his lukewarm pint, his stomach recoiling at the smell of it, mixed with the scent of sweat that rolls off the people around him in waves.

Geralt stands up. “Well, I’m going to sleep.” He walks to the stairs, to their shared room. Jaskier follows fifteen minutes later, trying and failing to compose himself before going upstairs.

Geralt is already fast asleep, somehow, when Jaskier gets there. He changes into his night clothes, but sits on his bed the rest of the night, looking at Geralt’s sleeping form. The Witcher’s usually so crass face is serene, and Jaskier wonders what he’s dreaming about. Wonders if he’s there, too.

He’s afraid to look away, to fall asleep, scared Geralt might not be there when he wakes up. _All those times I’ve watched him sleep, and I never once asked him if Witchers dream._

_Call me the one, this night just can’t end._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he sits down slowly, carefully next to Geralt on the rock at the edge of the cliff.

He knows Geralt is hurting, he knows he blames himself for what happened to Borch, Téa and Véa. He knows he can’t say anything to make it right, but he tries anyway. “You did your best. There’s nothing else you could’ve done.”

It’s silent for a few moments, and the whistling of the wind reminds him of Oxenfurt, of the familiar beaches and the open sea. _I think Geralt would love the ocean._ He licks his lips, a nervous habit he still hasn’t lost after all these years. “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is, if you give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

Geralt smiles a little, half a chuckle leaving his mouth and Jaskier considers that a victory. “We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.” _Please say yes, please say yes._

Silence. His mouth decides to run off without him. “Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it?” _Great one, Jaskier, remind him of it again._

It’s quiet for another moment, and he decides to continue: “Life is too short.” _Too short to spend another day without you._ “Do what pleases you, while you can.” His voice has trailed off into a whisper, the words too loud to say them at a normal volume.

Finally, Geralt speaks. “Working on your next song?” _I’d never write a song about your pain._

“No, just…” he hesitates, unsure of what to say, “just trying to figure out what pleases me.” A lie. He already knows.

_I want to give you your grin._

They sit there for a while, watching the sky turn a million different shades of pink, orange, purple, and, eventually, dark blue as the sun sets. Geralt hasn’t rejected his idea to go to the coast, but hasn’t said yes either, and Jaskier is on edge.

Still, the Witcher hasn’t told him to fuck off, either, and hasn’t left. He’s just sitting there, looking at the view, face peaceful and serene, for once. Jaskier can’t stop himself from stealing glances of Geralt’s profile, admiring the way the sunlight dances across his skin, makes the white hair almost glow. _He looks like an angel._

Suddenly, Geralt stands up, taking a deep sigh. He claps his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder as he turns, making his way to… _oh._

Disappointment and hurt rears up in the Bard’s chest, as he sees Geralt enter Yennefer’s tent. _Maybe he just wants to talk._

He waits for what seems to be an eternity, confusion, hurt, and anger in the pit of his stomach. The sun is fully gone now, and cold creeps into his bones. Geralt still hasn’t emerged from the Witch’s tent.

“Oi!” A voice calls out from twenty yards away. He looks over, seeing one of the dwarves. “What’re you doin’ out there on yer own, Bard? Come sit with us.”

Jaskier smiles lightly, stealing one last glance of the tent before making his way over to the fire, trying to fight the tears forming in his eyes.

_So tell me you can’t bear a room that I’m not in._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he’s never felt more lonely.

He’s sitting by the fire, no more than embers in ashes, as the dwarves snore around him. His bedroll is soft underneath him, but he can’t bring himself to lay down and go to sleep.

His eyes hurt from being kept open too long, and he has to remind himself to blink, to chase the fuzziness in his vision away. He rubs his shoulders a bit, fingers freezing and stiff against his doublet, cold creeping into his bones.

He sighs, unable to keep his eyes off Yennefer’s tent. Geralt still hasn’t emerged from it, and Jaskier can only imagine what they’re doing in there. He suppresses a spike of jealousy that carves against his insides.

 _That should be me._ He shakes his head to drive the thought away. Geralt clearly doesn’t feel the same way about him. He hasn’t taken up on Jaskier’s offer to go to the coast, and he went to Yennefer’s tent immediately afterwards. Besides, Geralt is his own person, he can do as he pleases.

His heart stops for a second at the thought. _Do as he pleases. Oh._

Jaskier’s driven Geralt straight into the arms of the Witch.

He fights to hold back the tears spilling from his eyes, and rubs his arms some more, half in search of warmth, half in search of comfort. He keeps staring at the tent, hoping, foolishly, that Geralt will emerge from it before the dawn, and return to Jaskier once more.

_Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend. Call me the one, this night just can’t end._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he wakes up alone.

He looks around, startling as he sees the sun already high in the sky. The fire has completely died out, and everyone else, including the dwarves, are gone. Yennefer’s tent has disappeared.

He grabs his stuff, jogging along the path, calling out for everyone and anyone. He’s hungry, and still half-asleep, but determined to find out where the others are, and – most importantly – why they left him behind.

Though, he can kind of figure out why himself. He’s not part of the dwarves’ company, and Geralt and Yennefer were clearly too busy doing… _whatever_ to wake him. And hasn’t the Witcher always said that Jaskier is no use in a fight? Why wake him up when he’s so useless, _right?_

He finds the dwarves near the entrance to the cave at the top of the mountain, seemingly unable to move. _Clearly one of Yennefer’s spells, the bitch._

He finds Borch, Téa and Véa at the cave, and nearly has a heart attack.

He finds Geralt and Yennefer, thick as thieves, there as well. The fight is clearly long over, and anger courses through his veins when he finds out what he’s missed. A golden dragon, an epic battle, magic. _The makings of the most amazing song ever._

Though, he feels no desire to write about it, as he looks at Yennefer, Geralt, and Borch, talking. A Sorceress, a Witcher, a Dragon.

_I’m so human._

He watches, as they talk, waiting patiently until he can go to Geralt. _Maybe he’ll accept my offer to go to the coast, this time._

He looks up, as Yennefer barrels past him, tears in her eyes, anger on her features. _Good riddance._ They shoot each other a dirty look before she leaves.

He sighs, fidgeting with the edge of his fingernail as Geralt and Borch talk some more. Obviously, they have great and important matters to discuss that they think Jaskier too lowly for, as they don’t even spare him as much as a look.

He’s hurting, but he tries to ignore it. Maybe once they’re on the road again, and have left all this nonsense behind them, things will start to feel normal again. He misses the Witcher he knew, the one who actually made jokes, the one who let him wash his hair until it was white again, the one who didn’t constantly seem to think about Yennefer, or was more occupied with her than with his best friend of twenty-two bloody years.

Borch leaves, finally, and Jaskier can see a flash of hurt and anger on Geralt’s face. He knows the feeling all too well, and stands up. Yesterday, he was able to soften the Witcher’s pain, talking to him, distracting him, lightening the mood overall. So maybe today he can, too. And then, they’ll be on the road again. Everything will be normal.

And neither of them will be hurting so much.

_We’re just human._

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands!” Oh.


	2. (I'm) Ready Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so last chapter was supposed to be a oneshot but then I realized how perfect so many dodie songs are for Geralt and Jaskier, so this 1-chapter fic has turned into a 6-chapter fic. I regret nothing.  
> This chapter has lyrics from Ready Now by dodie after every paragraph, and it's honestly such a good and cute song I would really recommend you listen to it.
> 
> Also, this one is from Geralt's pov, and I tried to match up the things that happened in the first chapter as much as possible, but that does mean the lyrics don't 100% fit the content of the fic at all times. Also there are some big time jumps.  
> Also! I have sensory overload every other week and my senses are at 80% on a good day, so you can't convince me that a Witcher, whose senses are cranked up to 170%, doesn't get sensory overload from time to time. So Geralt gets sensory overload in this chapter.  
> Also he's insecure and has self-image issues.  
> A lot's going on in this chapter, you'll see.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

The first time he sees the blue-eyed Bard, Geralt is sitting in the corner of some tavern in Posada. He sips his ale as the man – barely more than a teen – gets pelted with food. _Typical humans, cruel beyond reason. He wasn’t even half bad._

Still, he doesn’t really appreciate it when the Bard actually walks up to him, trying to strike a conversation with the Witcher. He smells of curiosity and excitement – a combination Geralt has rarely even scented around him. People always smell like fear or anger, more often than not both. _Except for this man._

“Love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.” Geralt has to admit, the Bard has some guts. Still, it’s best if they don’t strike up a conversation. The Witcher has nothing good to offer, anyway.

He doesn’t look up, hoping it will discourage the Bard. “I’m here to drink alone.” _Good. Precise, decisive, a sure way to finish this before it even starts._

He was wrong.

“No one else has hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance.” _If people pelting you with food counts as a comment._ “Except for you.” The man moves into his line of sight, and Geralt rolls his eyes. He’s not in the mood for small-talk or having to tell the Bard to fuck off, but he will do the latter if the man doesn’t leave soon.

The Bard is hard to ignore, though. A movement of his hand to accentuate the words that flow out of his mouth like a waterfall. A hasty smile, a flash of white teeth. Sitting down in front of the Witcher, uninvited. Everything about him is distracting and demands Geralt’s attention over and over again.

He bites the inside of his cheek, as the Bard finally realizes he is, in fact, sitting in front of a Witcher. Geralt awaits the reaction he’s come to anticipate over the years – fear in the Bard’s flowery scent, impossibly blue eyes looking away, rambling as he makes a hasty retreat.

Yet, that doesn’t happen. _That’s strange. Confusing._

Instead, the Bard shuffles in his seat a bit, eyes lighting up as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Oh, _fun._ ”

Geralt frowns. _You definitely did not expect that, did you, Geralt?_ It all becomes a bit too much, as he suddenly has no idea what to do anymore. He stands up, grabbing his swords, and making his way out the door, leaving the Bard behind him before he can corrupt the innocence and light that seems to emanate from the man. Or so he hopes.

_You saw through me all this time._

The Bard follows him out of Posada, for some reason. Geralt can hear him jogging up the dusty path, trying to catch up with the Witcher. He does, eventually. Geralt sighs and considers getting on Roach and riding away as quickly as possible, but the path is too steep and he doesn’t want to risk hurting her.

His hand grips the reigns tightly, knuckles undoubtedly turning white under the leather of his glove, as the Bard chatters on and on. He’s loud and annoying and Geralt’s already really fucking confused as to why this man is following him. It becomes too much again, and he shuts his eyes tightly, breathing in the hot summer air deeply, trying to calm himself down.

The birds are too loud, as is the crunch of footsteps in the sand, and the chatter behind him doesn’t cease. He feels acutely aware of every scent, taste, sound, and the places where his armour touches his skin. It’s overwhelming, and he wishes he could just clamp his hands over his ears, and bury his face in Roach’s fur to ground himself. As he always does when this sort of thing happens.

It is then that four words break through the static that’s assaulting his senses. “-the Butcher of Blaviken!” He stills, squeezing his eyes shut for a second longer, pushing away the noise that surrounds and invades his mind to the background. He shouldn’t do that – he knows – because if he doesn’t find a quiet place to let his senses rest now, this feeling will return later, twice as bad.

He turns around, now, though, regarding the wide smile on the Bard’s face. “Come here.” The idiot actually does as he’s told. _Too trusting for his own good._

Geralt makes sure to hold back a little when he punches the man in the gut. _That’ll keep him away._ He turns back around, leading Roach along the mountain path, sure that, this time, the Bard won’t follow him again.

He hears footsteps behind him. _You were wrong, Geralt._

“That’s an impressive right hook you’ve got there! Kind of hurt, but I’m sure you didn’t mean it like that-“ the Bard keeps on chattering, the words coming out of his mouth so quickly that they seem to blend into each other.

Geralt can’t help but smile, just a little. The man is a fool, naïve, innocent – yes – but apparently he’s also determined and not as weak-hearted Geralt first thought he was. _An interesting combination._

They keep walking, and the Witcher can’t bring himself to push the Bard away again – not for now, at least. They will part ways after this contract.

_I’d forgotten, people are kind._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been half a day since he’s met Jaskier – as he found out the Bard’s name is – and they’re sitting in a tavern a little ways outside of Posada. He looks out over the room, counting the people, assessing the mood of the crowd, making sure he knows where all the exits are. There’s a wall behind and next to him – as he prefers. _Less sides for enemies to attack._

Jaskier, on the other hand, is sitting opposite him, back fully exposed, head down, writing in his notebook. He’s vulnerable, and Geralt can’t help but eye the room a little more carefully, making sure no one there might be planning to rob the Bard of his meagre possessions at some point. If they do, the Witcher will make sure they’ll think twice the next time.

His eyes widen a bit, and his ale stills halfway to his mouth, hanging in the air aimlessly, as he realizes he’s not intending on leaving Jaskier tonight - or even tomorrow, for that matter. He doesn’t know when he decided that, or even if he really did at all. Maybe it just came to him naturally. _Stupid idiot, always going around trying to protect people. They’re better off without you, Geralt._

He takes a sip of his ale, pushing the accusing voice to the back of his mind. He casts another look around the room, noting how two gentlemen on the other side of the tavern are having a heated discussion. He decides to keep an eye on those two – in case a brawl breaks out and he has to keep Jaskier from getting hurt.

 _There it is again, that need to protect. You’ve always had a soft heart, Geralt._ His hand clenches around the tankard a bit, as he tries, once again, to push away that little voice.

He sighs, and looks up, catching a glimpse of impossibly blue eyes before they quickly look away. He remembers earlier that day, when Jaskier tried to ask about his scars. He feels guilty now, looking back at how he had snapped at the Bard, but his scars are a topic he’s… _sensitive_ about. They always remind him of the fact that he’s not as invincible as everyone assumes Witchers are, and that, one day, he’ll die too. _Alone, forgotten._

Jaskier hasn’t asked about them again, though.

_I was hurting, and you knew._

He looks away again, ordering two more ales from the nice barmaid. She gives him a smile that almost – _almost_ convinces him she’s not scared to the death of the Witcher, and hurries off again. He steals another glance of Jaskier, who’s looking into his half-empty tankard with a frown on his face, before Geralt empties his coin pouch on the table.

 _Well, fuck._ There’s enough coin for those two ales he’s just ordered, and maybe a meal tomorrow evening. He needs a contract, fast. He sighs and hands two silver pieces to the barmaid when she places the tankards in front of them, taking the old ones away, after Jaskier’s quickly downed his.

The smell of lukewarm ale invades his nose and suddenly, he feels light-headed. He looks down at the table, shovelling the remainder of his money into his bag. The tavern reeks of ale and sweat and hormones, as middle-aged men try and fail to flirt with the women there.

The people are too loud, everyone chattering, the sound of dozens of footfalls, drunken laughter here and there and the occasional shout. The room is too dim, there are too many people, too many things happening all at once. He’s once again acutely aware of every little sound, smell, taste, colour, every press of the wood of the table against his arms, the bench underneath him, assaulting his heightened senses.

It’s overwhelming, and he curses himself for not taking a breather when the same thing happened earlier that day. He knew this would happen, that the sensation would return tenfold later, yet he had brushed it off. _Idiot._

Amidst all the noises, he’s able to discern a voice, closer than the others but still so far away in the racket that invades his ears. “Geralt, are you okay?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to take deep, calming breaths, trying to keep his heartbeat down. It speeds up nonetheless, and his hands involuntarily ball into fists.

Then, a touch on his arm, loud in his already overflowing mind, pulling on him. He lets himself be dragged away, blindly following the person this hand is attached to. _Dammit, Geralt, you should know better than to let your guard down._

All of a sudden, when he feels like he’s about to collapse under the pressure and the loudness of it all, everything falls away. The noises dim, and when he opens his eyes, the world around him is dark, empty mountains stretching out under the moonlight. The night air cools the sweat on his skin, and he sags against the tavern wall.

He waits, while the storm around him finally calms down, his heartbeat slowing to a normal level, the crickets outside not so immensely loud in his ears anymore, the touch of the tavern wall no longer overwhelming. He looks to his side, at last, after several minutes of silence and blessed nothingness, and sees Jaskier, looking at him, concern in his eyes.

He realizes the Bard was the one to drag him out of the tavern, when things became too much. He saw – truly _saw_ what was going on and he helped. The Witcher doesn’t know what to say, so he simply stares, dumbfounded, grateful.

Eventually, Jaskier smiles at him brightly, slapping Geralt’s arm. “Right, I’m going back inside. I want to see how well people respond to my new song.” He walks backwards to the door, giving the Witcher a dorky thumbs-up before he disappears back into the tavern. “Wish me luck!”

_So you showed me what to do._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been a month since he’s met Jaskier, and they’re in the woods, halfway between two towns, both of the villages too far away to reach before midnight. Geralt doesn’t think the Bard minds, though, as they’ve slept outside a lot in the past month – rooms are expensive, and they’ve barely got enough money to eat, anyways.

He works on the fire, and remembers two weeks ago, when Jaskier tried to build one. _Always trying to be so fucking nice._ His hand clenches around a branch, the wood creaking under his fingers as he recalls how the fire had nearly set Jaskier and the forest around them ablaze, and Geralt had managed to stop it from happening just in time. Something clenches in his gut at the memory, and he writes it off to hunger.

He sits down heavily on a log, once he’s done with the fire, and starts fumbling with the straps of his armour. They’re always a nuisance and he wonders why the fuck no one’s thought of a better alternative than all these goddamn straps and pieces of leather. He bites down on his cheek, trying to distract himself from the frustration that’s building up inside of him, when suddenly, Jaskier’s hands replace his.

He looks up, noticing how the Bard sticks his tongue out of his lips a little as he works – just like he always does when he’s concentrating. He does it when he’s writing, when he’s tying his shoelaces, when he’s trying out new chords, and now, as he undoes the straps of Geralt’s armour quickly. _Not that you’ve noticed, right Geralt? Not that you’re looking at him all the time._

He brings his hand up to push Jaskier’s away. “I can take care of my armour perfectly fine by myself, thanks.”

Jaskier stands up, hands on his hips, like a scolding mother, eyebrows raised above brilliantly blue eyes. _Stop staring, Geralt._ “I know that, dear Witcher,” the Bard says, “but you take forever to do it. So, let me help, and we’ll be able to eat three hours earlier than if you were to do it by yourself. I’m starving.”

 _How could you ever say no to him, you weak-hearted fool?_ He can’t, so he doesn’t. “Hmm.”

He watches, as Jaskier continues undoing the straps, tongue poking out of his mouth again, blue eyes concentrated and focused and-

Looking at him. _Great one, Geralt, now he’s caught you staring._ Jaskier cocks his head, hands coming to rest on his knees. “What?”

The Witcher has to tear his eyes away, instead focusing on the brightness of the fire, hoping it might blind him, preventing him from staring at Jaskier. “Nothing.”

_You said: “I will listen, tell it all.”_

“Come on, Geralt, surely you have some interesting stories to tell me.” Jaskier has his notebook in his lap, pencil ready to write down any sparse detail the Witcher might give him.

Geralt shrugs. “It’s monster hunting, Jaskier, it’s not as interesting as everyone thinks.” He smirks at the annoyed look Jaskier gives him, noting in the back of his mind how beautiful the Bard looks when he pouts. _Don’t be weird, Geralt._

He continues: “You get the contract, you find the monster, you kill it, you get money sometimes. That’s all there is to it.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, and rolls his eyes, making a show of putting the pencil and the notebook away. “Really, Geralt, if you won’t tell me anything, then I’ll just have to follow you around some more.” _Please do._

He’s not sure why he wants the Bard to keep him company so badly – really, he’s mostly a nuisance and a bother. _But he’s also a friend._ He frowns at his hands, resting in his lap, the realization hitting him a little too hard to be comfortable.

He shrugs it away, and stands up, spreading his bedroll on the forest floor, and laying down. “You should sleep, it’s getting late.”

He turns his back to Jaskier, listening as the Bard stammers a bit, then lays down as well. He closes his eyes, desperate to shut out whatever it is he’s feeling, the guilt of being so short with Jaskier just now gnawing at him. He pushes it away, falling into a restless sleep.

_“When you’re finished, we’ll talk more.”_

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been a month and a week since he’s met Jaskier, and they’re sitting by the campfire once more. The Bard is huddling into Geralt’s side, notebook in his hand as he shivers. It’s not that cold, but the Bard only has thin, unpractical clothing, and they don’t have enough coin to buy him a cloak.

Geralt sighs, and takes his blanket from Roach’s saddlebag, wrapping it around Jaskier. He does not grow warm all of a sudden when Jaskier smiles up at him brightly. He does not feel something flutter in his chest when the Bard presses himself back into Geralt’s side when the Witcher sits back down.

His heart does not melt a little when Jaskier pouts at him. “Please tell me a story of one of your adventures, I need new song material.”

Geralt sighs, mind coming up empty on anything useful or interesting. “I don’t have _adventures_ , they’re just contracts.”

Jaskier sighs theatrically. “Oh, please, you didn’t get your nickname out of the blue, did you? Come on, Geralt, please tell me.”

He feels his jaw clench at the mere memory of Blaviken, and the things that transpired there. “No.”

Jaskier pulls away, looking at the Witcher quizzically. “Is it too painful?”

Geralt closes his eyes for a second, trying to push the hurt away. _How does he always see right through you, Geralt?_ “Maybe.”

The Bard purses his lips, brow furrowing and _oh gods he does_ not _look adorable like that._ Suddenly, his face brightens up again, blue eyes alight with an idea. “If I tell you why I changed my name, will you tell me about Blaviken?”

Geralt cocks his head, taken aback a bit. _He changed his name?_ Despite his reservations and the old hurt he can still feel at the thought of telling someone about Blaviken, curiosity flares up in him. “Fine.”

_But I didn’t know how, so we took it in turns._

A few hours later, Jaskier looks up at him from where his head is laying on Geralt’s shoulder. “So, it wasn’t your fault.”

Geralt frowns. “It _was_ my fault. I killed those soldiers, I murdered Renfri.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, looking at him with a half-smile that says ‘ _oh, gods, you’re so stupid,’_ and makes Geralt’s knees a little weak. “They would’ve killed you if you hadn’t. It was self-defence.”

The Witcher snorts, looking at the embers of the dying fire. “The people of Blaviken seemed to think otherwise when they pelted me with rocks and chased me away with pitchforks.”

He feels a warm hand on his own, and looks at Jaskier’s thumb tracing soft, soothing circles in the back of his hand. “Well, the people of Blaviken are stupid. And so is everyone else.” Jaskier’s voice drops to a whisper. “I will fight anyone who calls you the Butcher of Blaviken ever again.”

Geralt smiles, finally meeting Jaskier’s brilliant, blue eyes. “You just said it, too, though.”

A smile in return, and Geralt does not notice a dimple in the Bard’s right cheek, barely there, little more than a slight indent of the smooth skin. “Well, I’ll fight myself, too, then.”

He does not startle at how close Jaskier’s face is to his, he does not see how the embers cast soft shadows on the Bard’s skin, how the blue eyes seem to light up in the dark, he does not feel how the entire world narrows down to the man pressing into his side, to the hand that’s resting on his own.

He does remember he’s a Witcher, and that Jaskier deserves better – so much better than anything Geralt has to offer. He pulls back, standing up, and his skin does _not_ mourn the loss of contact. “Right, I’m going to sleep. It’s getting late.”

He walks around the ashes of the fire, laying down on his bedroll, back turned to Jaskier. He does _not_ feel cold all of a sudden, and if he does, it’s only because Jaskier still has his blanket.

_To my surprise, we found my words._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been four months since he’s met Jaskier, and they’re all but getting chased out of the town with pitchforks. People glare at them, angry shouts of _‘mutant’, ‘freak’, ‘monster’_ thrown at his head. He doesn’t mind that much, though. He’s used to it by now.

What he does care about are the insults Jaskier has to endure, the likes of ‘ _Witcher’s slut’, ‘filth’, ‘whore’_ that make Geralt’s blood boil. He holds his head up high, shooting death-glares at everyone who even looks at the Bard the wrong way.

He steals a few glances of Jaskier as they make their way out of town under the vengeful gaze of the people, lining the streets. He admires the way Jaskier doesn’t say a word in retaliation, for once, and holds his chin up, looking straight ahead.

Sure, this may not be the last time they will come across people like this, but Geralt feels a little less worried about it, now that he knows Jaskier will stand his ground and know when to strike back and – more importantly – when not to.

They leave the town as quickly as possible, angry shouts thrown at them until the wind is able to carry the sound away.

_Feet firm on the ground, we stood hand in hand._

“You okay?” Jaskier looks up at Geralt’s words from where he’s been fiddling with his lute, plucking a few random chords.

The Bard smiles a bit, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been… a bad day, I guess.”

Geralt sighs. “That’s one way to put it.”

It’s quiet between them for a few moments, and the Witcher goes back to cleaning his sword. It’s not dirty, or anything, and he actually shouldn’t clean an already spotless blade, but he still needs to be able to do something with his hands.

 _Get your mind off the shit of this world. Off the way you’re hurting him by simply being you._ He closes his eyes for a second, pushing the voice as far away as possible.

“What about you, though?” Geralt looks up, meeting impossibly blue eyes. “Are you okay, Geralt?”

He nods curtly. “I’m fine, I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.” His heart does not break a little at the sincerity with which Jaskier looks at him. He does not melt at the blind hope and trust in those blue eyes.

“No,” he says, ever so softly, “I shouldn’t be.” His hand stills for a moment, before resuming to rub at the silver of his sword with the damp rag. This is the first time he’s ever admitted, even to himself, that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

Jaskier’s made him more confident, he realizes. Has made him believe that maybe he does deserve good things happening to him, that he isn’t an inherently bad person. The Bard’s faith and trust in him has rubbed off on him.

He vows, right there and then, to become a better person. If not for himself, then for Jaskier. Because he doesn’t want the little lark’s heart to break once he realizes that Geralt’s not the person he thought he was.

So, he promises himself to be better, do better, become better – be deserving of Jaskier’s inherent goodness and light.

_The world seemed to tell me that I have a plan._

He smiles softly as the Bard strums another chord, the tip of his tongue sticking out from his mouth, brow furrowed in concentration. _He’s beautiful._

He knows Jaskier needs more song material, and the past few contracts have given less to sing about than a particularly good sandwich – not to mention the coin has barely been enough to buy them said sandwich. They need the money, and the easiest way to get it is through Jaskier’s music.

He sighs, hesitation in the pit of his stomach. Though, for the first time in a long while, he’s determined. If he’s been able to talk about his worst scars, the ones caused by Blaviken, then surely he might be able to talk about the other ones as well, right.

And yes, they do remind him he’s mortal and not invincible, that he will die at some point, alone and forgotten, but…

Maybe, with Jaskier there, he won’t die like that. Not alone. Not forgotten.

And if that’s the case, well… the scars aren’t so scary all of a sudden. Maybe he can just talk about them, then. So he does.

_Together we sang: “I’m ready, now.”_

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been half a year since he’s met Jaskier, and they finally have enough coin for a room at an inn for the night. The innkeeper informs him that there’s only one room left, due to the upcoming Spring festival, but neither of them mind. After all, they’ve slept in each other’s proximity countless of times, and rooms are expensive.

He simply shrugs and takes it, ignoring the way the innkeeper seems to try to say something, but Geralt’s already gone, up the stairs to their shared room, as Jaskier trails behind him.

He sighs as he walks in, the prospect of sleeping in a real bed tonight already making him feel more at ease. He starts taking his armour of, suspecting that he won’t need it tonight, anyway.

His hands start fumbling with the leather straps, when he notices Jaskier – or, more accurately, the absence of Jaskier’s hands, undoing the harder to reach straps. He looks up, meeting big, blue eyes, looking confused and worried.

He does not feel a sharp jab in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Jaskier looking so unhappy. He does not feel the strange urge to hug the Bard, to tell him everything’s going to be alright, no matter what the issue actually is.

Instead, he cocks his head. “Are you going to help me or are you just going to keep staring at me?” _Great one, Geralt. Be fucking rude to him, once again._ Jaskier sputters a bit, dropping his belongings in a corner with a disregard that is so uncharacteristically _not Jaskier._ Geralt frowns, but decides against saying anything about it.

The Bard does come to help the Witcher take off the armour, but his hands are fumbling and unsure, something Geralt has rarely ever seen before. It worries him.

Finally, Jaskier speaks: “Uh… Geralt.”

His voice sounds almost unfamiliar, with the way he talks so softly, so concerned, as though the Witcher is a caged animal that’s about to lash out. A tiny bit of worry creeps into Jaskier’s scent, but not fear – _never fear._

Geralt sighs, trying – and failing, probably – to look sincere. “What?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, and the Witcher’s eye is not caught by the way the Bard’s throat moves when he does that. He does not think about putting his lips there and inhaling Jaskier’s scent of strawberries and campfire smoke. He does not nearly miss what the Bard says because of this.

“There is only one bed.” Blue eyes evade his, and he does _not_ want to beg Jaskier to just look at him again, so he can see the tiny ring of white that surrounds his pupils, barely visible against the light blue.

He almost forgets to reply, and his voice feels thick and syrupy in his throat. “And?”

Finally, Jaskier looks back at him, and Geralt _does not become weak at his knees goddammit._ “Who’s going to sleep on the floor?”

Geralt nearly laughs at that. _Does he not know you’d do anything to have him close for at least one night, Geralt? No, he doesn’t even consider it. Of course he doesn’t, you treat him like shit._

He pushes the voice away, instead focusing on what’s real, what’s genuine. Jaskier, in front of him. Blue eyes, brown curls, rosy lips. He almost forgets his words again. He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear his mind. “No one is.”

“Oh.” Jaskier nods, hands coming up again to continue their work, tongue sticking out of his mouth slightly in concentration. “Okay.”

Geralt does _not_ feel something warm blooming in his chest.

_Something new, something strange._

He’s standing in front of the mirror, porcelain cool beneath his fingers as he grips the edges of the sink. Jaskier’s downstairs, and Geralt can hear a few fleeting notes of the Bard’s performance filtering through the wooden planks beneath his feet, the crowd bursting into cheering and laughter as the song ends.

The image of himself in the glass is blurry, and he wipes at the mirror, though the years-old dirt can’t be rubbed off the surface that easily. He lowers his hand again, fingers holding onto the side of the sink as though it’s his last lifeline. _It isn’t, though._

His last lifeline is downstairs, starting a new song.

He looks into his own amber eyes, for the first time in years – decades even, maybe. _That’s you. Yes, you, Geralt._

He tries to will the voice in the back of his head to shut up, but his efforts only make it seem to grow louder and louder. _Look at those yellow eyes, that white hair, that scowl. Ooh, scary face. A coward in monster’s clothing._

The porcelain groans under his fingers, and he makes a conscious effort to loosen his grip – a new sink would surely cost them a fortune and earn them a life-long ban from this inn. He squeezes his eyes shut, figures dancing behind his eyelids.

He opens them again, staring at the man in the mirror. A man – he tells himself – nothing more.

Not a monster, not a demon, not a coward. A man.

It’s been years since he really, truly looked at himself in the mirror – he never could bear the sight after the trials were over. He could even less after he had left Blaviken, the red stains on his hands never truly washing off, it felt like.

It _felt_ like. Not ‘ _feels_ ’, not anymore. He looks down at his hands, now, and can only see the dirt of the road under his fingernails, a bit of soot from last night’s campfire on the back of his right hand. He can almost hear Jaskier’s voice in his ear: “ _You need to take more baths, Geralt. Really, I can’t walk around with someone who’s covered in dirt all day, every day, can I?”_

He smiles down at the sink, and gathers himself for a few seconds, before looking up again. Amber eyes stare back. Yellow eyes, white hair, an eternal scowl. _Monster._ The little voice is back, whispering in his ear, curling down his spine.

 _Yellow eyes, like a snake_ – it says. Like a field of dandelions – he retorts. Like the sun, Jaskier has told him on several occasions.

 _White hair, unnatural, wrong._ Except when Jaskier brushes it out, or runs his fingers through it, or comments on how beautiful he thinks it looks under the light of the sun.

 _Scowl, always scowling, always looking angry._ He remembers the time Jaskier had laid his head on Geralt’s shoulder, a soft thumb, slightly calloused from lute strings, coming up to rub at the skin of the Witcher’s forehead. Smoothing the wrinkles away, dissipating the scowl. “ _Why are you so angry?”_ Jaskier had asked. Geralt had replied: “ _I’m not.”_ He closes his eyes, letting warmth flood him. _Not when I’m with you._

Not a monster. Geralt. Just… Geralt.

Downstairs, Jaskier starts another song. It’s _Toss A Coin,_ and Geralt smiles involuntarily. His heart skips a beat when he looks at himself in the mirror again, smiling. He looks… _different._ Not good different or bad different, he just looks a way he’s never seen himself before. More carefree, happier, yellow eyes lighting up like the sun. _Is this the way Jaskier sees me?_

Maybe it’s good different, after all.

He suddenly feels tired, his entire body weighing him down. He lets go of the sink, fingertips brushing against the small indents he’s left in the porcelain, and he hopes no one notices it. He doesn’t want to pay for a new sink.

He lays down on the bed, pulling the blankets around him as he hears Jaskier coming up the stairs. He smiles again, and finds joy in the action, as he remembers the man in the mirror.

_Ten feet taller, I had changed._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been nine years since he’s met Jaskier, and he grunts as the Bard empties a bucket of water over his head.

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest.” Jaskier drops the bucket onto the floor, as Geralt tries to scrub the Selkiemore guts off his arm, only managing to smear it out more. _Fuck._

Jaskier continues talking as he walks over to the towel cabinet. “It is one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world, how hard could it be?” He wipes his already spotless hands on the towel, as Geralt turns around.

“I’m not your friend.” The words are out of his mouth before he realizes it. Though, to be honest, he’s not wrong. Jaskier may be _his_ best friend, but the Witcher’s been nothing but mean and cruel to the Bard, despite his intentions of treating him better. So he’s not _Jaskier’s_ friend, really.

_Yeah, whatever, Geralt. Anything to try and keep your distance and deny what you’re feeling for him._

Jaskier smiles at him, seeing right through the Witcher, as always. “Oh, oh really? You usually let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?”

Geralt pulls his eyebrows up at him. _That was one time, three years ago, because I got bitten in the ass by a feral dog. That_ you _provoked._ He says nothing, though, and Jaskier chuckles. “Yeah that’s what I thought.”

He continues to the shelf that holds all the bath salts and oils, nimble fingers picking at a few bottles before he chooses a particular kind of salt. Sandalwood, Geralt notices. Something that won’t assault his heightened sense of smell as much as flowery perfumes would. _He knows me so well._ His heart does not clench at the thought.

Jaskier keeps rambling, barely able to contain his excitement. “Every lord, knight, and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal. The lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!” With a swirl and a dramatic flick of his hand that’s so typically _Jaskier_ , the bath salt lands in the water.

But that’s not why the Bard has asked him to come along, Geralt knows. As much as it hurts him, he knows Jaskier has a particular reason for inviting him. _‘Bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world,’_ he remembers.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?” He does not feel a sharp pang of hurt at the thought of how many people Jaskier has slept with to acquire such a large amount of enemies. _Stop it, Geralt, you’re just a friend._

Jaskier looks away, blue eyes lighting up the whole room, candlelight flickering on his face and _he does not look beautiful, stop thinking like that, Geralt._ “Hard to say, one stops keeping count after a while.”

He walks around the bath again to hang the towel on the hook on the wall, rambling as he does so: “Wives, concubines, mothers sometimes.” Geralt does _not feel hurt._

Jaskier turns around, and Geralt realizes he’s been scowling again, as the Bard frames his face dramatically. “Ooh, yeah, that face! Scary face! No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that.” _No wives, either, then?_

Still, he feels a little bit of pride at the fact that Jaskier trusts him so blindly, lays his life in Geralt’s hands because he has faith the Witcher will always be there to protect him.

_I believe you, I’m not wrong. Oh, it suits me to feel strong._

He takes the tankard of ale that’s standing next to the bath, though Jaskier’s hand immediately swoops it away from under his nose. _You’re lucky you’re cute._

“On second thoughts, might want to lay off the Cintran ale. A clear head would be best.” His hand slaps on Geralt’s shoulder as he stands up, leaving a trail of blazing fire in its wake as he puts the mug away.

Geralt sighs, hand clenching involuntarily. “I will not suffer tonight sober because you his your sausage in the wrong royal pantry.” He knows he’s being unnecessarily cruel to the Bard, that Jaskier has every right to sleep with whoever he pleases. But still – it hurts.

Jaskier doesn’t reply, and Geralt takes that as a cue to continue, to fill the uncomfortable silence with _something, anything:_ “I’m not killing anyone, not over the petty squabbles of men.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Yes, yes, yes. You never get involved, except you totally do, all the time.” And _goddammit how does he always look through me?_

His eyes follow Jaskier as the Bard walks around the bath. “Ugh, is this what happens when you grow old, you become unbelievably crochety and cantankerous? Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do Witchers ever retire?”

Geralt’s only ever known one way for Witchers to stop taking contracts. Dying. “Yes, when they slow and get killed.”

“Come on,” Jaskier continues, hand on his hip, brilliant blue eyes curious, “you must want something for yourself once all this monster hunting nonsense is over.”

Except it never ends, not that Geralt’s ever heard of, anyway. And even then, what would he do? Become a farmer? Settle down? Even if he does - which he _won’t_ – he will outlive anyone he settles down with.

 _He will outlive Jaskier._ He does not feel a surge of anger and hurt at the thought.

He cocks his head, as Jaskier looks at him expectantly. “I want nothing.”

He does not think he smells disappointment in the Bard’s scent. He’s definitely making things up. _False hope._

“Well,” Jaskier pouts a little, resting his folded arms on the edge of the tub, and _gods would he stop looking so beautiful,_ “who knows, maybe someone out there will want you.”

 _Only if it’s you._ He almost says the words, but remembers once again that he’s a Witcher, and Jaskier deserves so much better than him. “I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.” _Cause I will inevitably disappoint you._

Jaskier looks up at him, all blue eyes and candlelight on soft skin and brown curls. “And yet, here we are.”

Geralt blinks, not sure if he’s really heard what he thinks he’s heard. That Jaskier needs him. _No. Not possible. It was just a figment of my imagination._ Still, he feels a spark of hope, kindling in his chest. That maybe there is something other than monster hunting waiting for him, that maybe he doesn’t have to be alone, for the rest of his life.

_You said: “I will listen, tell me it all. You don’t like the ending? Then we’ll find one that’s yours.”_

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met Jaskier, and he’s filled with grief and guilt as he sits on a rock on the side of the mountain. It was his job to keep Borch safe, and he failed. Not only that, but he couldn’t even save Téa and Véa. Now they’re gone. Dead. Because of him.

He feels Jaskier sitting next to him, a flash of the bright red of the Bard’s doublet in the corner of his eye, and he remembers how beautifully it contrasts with Jaskier’s blue eyes. Still, he keeps his gaze trained on the horizon.

“You did your best, there’s nothing else you could’ve done.” Reasonably, Geralt knows that. He knows the planks were half-rotten and unstable, he knows he never could have saved them, but still, it hurts.

They sit in silence for a while, as Geralt lets the guilt and grief consume him. Suddenly, again, that soft voice next to him: “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is, if you give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

Geralt scoffs at the thought of Jaskier _not_ being a worthy travel companion. If he wasn’t, they surely wouldn’t have spent twenty-two years, three months, and five days together, would they? Not that Geralt was keeping track of how long it’s been since he’s met the Bard. Not that it means anything to him.

Jaskier continues, apparently spurred on by Geralt’s half-chuckle: “We could head to the coast, get away for a while.” _Oh, gods, there’s nothing I would rather do._

He almost says it, but hesitates. What if he seems to eager? Comes off too strong? Maybe Jaskier doesn’t even mean it like a vacation, maybe he’s just heard of a contract or a monster on the coast. Maybe Jaskier wants to hear the Siren’s song for once, because Geralt wouldn’t let him come along on the hunt the last time they encountered one. What if-

“Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it?” Geralt curses himself for overthinking the offer, for not taking it when he had the chance. Would it sound too awkward to do so now? Maybe it would but-

“Life is too short. Do what pleases you, while you can.” Jaskier’s voice has trailed off into a whisper. Geralt frowns. _Life is too long if I have to live part of it without you._

Still, he knows Jaskier can’t possibly mean it like Geralt so desperately hopes he does. Twenty-two years and not once has the Bard made a move. So, clearly, he doesn’t feel the same way the Witcher does. _Unrequited feelings. Sounds like a corny song._

 _Maybe that’s it._ “Working on your next song?”

Jaskier chuckles, a sound that reverberates in Geralt's head and he does _not_ wish he could hear the Bard chuckle like that every day for the rest of his long life. “No, just… trying to figure out what pleases me.”

 _What pleases me?_ Hearing Jaskier laugh pleases him. Seeing him smile does, too. Hearing him sing, watching his fingers on the strings of his lute, seeing those brown curls in the sunlight, having those blue eyes looking at him. The lame jokes, the stupid quips, the petty squabbles with other people that insult Jaskier’s music. The drunken laughter, the soft snoring, the yawns early in the morning.

_Oh, gods, I’m in love._

He does _not_ realize after twenty-two years that he’s in love.

What now? He looks at the sunset, acutely aware of Jaskier’s presence next to him. Now, he will go to Yennefer’s tent, tell her he’s leaving, and take Jaskier up on his offer to go to the coast. And then? He’ll see.

_How did you know? That’s all we need. A promise of hope is enough to feel free._

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met Jaskier, and he makes the worst mistake of his life.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-three years since he’s met Jaskier, and he’s standing in front of a shitty inn, in a nowhere town. He’s heard rumours of the Bard being here, after a year of searching for him.

Of course, he doesn’t have much hope of finding Jaskier here, since most of the rumours he’s chased up until now were dead ends. Either Jaskier would be long gone, or he was never even there at all. Still, Geralt will take any chance he can get at seeing the Bard again.

If only so he can say sorry. For everything. For the shouting, for the hurt, but also for not showing Jaskier the appreciation he truly deserved all those years. For the mean words, for the ignored sentences. For _everything_.

_Feet firm on the ground, we stood hand in hand._

He walks into the inn, immediately noticing it’s quite packed, despite it being a small town. Maybe Jaskier’s here, after all. He _does_ always gain a lot of attention.

Geralt approaches who he assumes is the innkeeper, a pot-bellied man with a – frankly, impressive – moustache. “I heard there was a Bard in town.”

The man wipes a glass on a dirty cloth, smearing out the filth over the surface. “Aye. You heard right, Witcher. Though, I don’t think he’s up for a performance tonight. ‘s Been drinking all day.” Geralt frowns. _That doesn’t sound like Jaskier._

The innkeeper takes his silence as encouragement and continues: “As a matter of fact, he’s been drinking for the past few days he’s been here. Not really great performances, if you ask me. Can’t even distinguish his lute from a chair, if you get what I mean.”

Geralt cocks his head. _That doesn’t sound like Jaskier at all._ “What does he look like?”

Maybe that’ll clear things up. It does. “Brown hair, blue eyes, wears pretty fancy clothing, though they’re a bit old, if you ask me. Lovely fellow, even though he’s off the rockers all the time.”

 _That’s Jaskier, alright._ “Where can I find him?”

The innkeeper raises his eyebrows at him suspiciously, relenting after holding a short staring contest with the Witcher. “Upstairs, last door to the left.”

“Thank you.” He walks up the stairs, ignoring the way people stare at him. _The usual._

_And I told the world that I have a plan._

He stands at the top of the stairs for a few seconds, thinking about how torturous the last year has been without Jaskier. No singing, no humming, no music, no chatter, no Jaskier. And it was all Geralt’s fault.

How stupid he had been. Mistake after mistake, piling up into one big, shit-covered crescendo that left him alone and angry and regretful.

He’s been writing a letter, or a speech, or something – he’s not entirely sure how to label it - for when he would find the Bard again. He’s scratched it out and restarted it a hundred times. The right words never really seemed to come, or they would be… too much. Too sensitive, too revealing of his true feelings.

He doesn’t want to chase Jaskier away. Not now. Not while he still has a chance of at least getting him back as a friend.

He was finally able to perfect his speech about a week ago, and he’s _not_ nervous. He’s definitely _not_ more nervous than he’s ever been in his life. He walks up to the door, hesitating a bit, hand up in the air, ready to knock.

It might not be Jaskier. The Bard might not want to see him. Even if he does, he might not forgive Geralt. And, even then, things might never go back to the way they were before.

Only one way to find out.

He sighs, finally knocking on the door.

_Together we sang: “I’m ready now.”_

He pats his pockets, and realizes he forgot the paper with the speech in Roach’s saddlebags. The door opens, Jaskier startling when he sees Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can come yell at me or follow me or talk to me or stalk me or WHATEVER on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3. I also post memes and edits there so swing by if you're in the neighboorhood! It's great fun.


	3. (Here I Am With) Arms Unfolding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features lyrics from Arms Unfolding by dodie after every paragraph. I'd really recommend you'd check it out cause it's a really beautiful song and I love it.
> 
> Also idk if I mentioned it before, but the pov changes every chapter. Chapter 1, 3, and 5 are Jaskier pov, chapter 2, 4, and 6 are Geralt pov.  
> I think that's about all I have to say for this chapter, except that I'm soft for these two, but you probably already knew that. Also Jaskier gets to yell at Geralt because it's what he deserves.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

A year. A year without Geralt.

A year without getting yelled at, without being told he’s a nuisance, without getting chased away – at least not by the Witcher. Without arguments over stupid, little things like who ate the last piece of bread or who spilled ale on his favourite doublet, or who ruined the other person’s entire life, apparently.

A year without having to wash out monster blood and guts from white hair, without threading his fingers through silver locks, without muck on his hands, without lightly dragging his nails across the Witcher’s scalp and seeing a tiny shiver run down Geralt’s spine. Without having to cower from monsters, without adventures, without new scars that take ages to heal, without adrenaline in his veins.

A year without stupid jokes and shared ales and sleeping close to someone he trusts with his life. Without deep chuckles and hummed approvals of new songs and making fun of people together. Without sunshine eyes and starlight hair and someone to run to when things get scary. Without his best friend, without the person he used to love most.

Without Geralt.

A year with hurt and sleeping around in an effort to heal what’s left of his heart and drowning his sorrows and being so _goddamn tired all the time._

A year with barely anyone recognizing him without his Witcher by his side and getting robbed nonetheless and feeling unsafe and alone and scared.

A year with dwindling money as he drinks, in an effort to feel something, _anything._ Or maybe nothing at all. He can’t remember.

A year, two weeks, five days, six hours. Or so. He’s not keeping count. It doesn’t matter.

And then, a knock on the door of the run-down inn he’s been staying at for the past week. He opens it in a daze, thinking that, surely, it’s the innkeeper here to kick him out, or a vengeful lover of someone he slept with, or the nice barmaid, who keeps bringing him two meals every day even though he doesn’t ask for it and barely eats it – he’s just not hungry.

But no. It’s a figment of his imagination, a last hurrah of his drunken mind – even though he barely drank today – as it produces the one thing, the one _person_ he so desperately wants to see and never wants to see again, at the same time. Everything about the vision is painfully familiar, and makes his heart clench in his chest. The black armour, the white, perpetually dirty hair, the sunflower eyes.

Jaskier sighs, scratching at his beard, and he realizes he forgot to shave. Again. For two weeks. _Fuck._

He stares at the phantom in the hallway for another second, before closing the door. It slams shut, and he turns around, walking across the room to his bed. _What time is it even? Doesn’t matter, I need a nap._

He chuckles – a little deranged, even in his own ears – as the memory of the djinn resurfaces. More specifically, right before his voice was attacked – which, according to a certain Witcher, was his own fault, but _okay_ – and he had told Geralt that he needed a nap. He wonders, now, if this is how the Witcher had felt back then: sleep-deprived, confused, tired, not sure what’s real and what’s not, anymore.

 _Yeah, I definitely need a nap._ He lets himself fall on the bed, closing his eyes against the late afternoon light shining through the window. _Oh, look at that, I_ do _know the time._

He frowns when he hears another knock at the door. Maybe, if he ignores it, whoever it is this time will just go away. Or not, if it’s still that figment of his imagination. Either way, he needs some sleep, and he’s not opening the door again.

He closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the not entirely comfortable mattress. Still, it’s better than sleeping outside on his bedroll, all alone. _Not as good as sleeping outside on my bedroll with Geralt there, though._

He groans a bit, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles, figures dancing behind his eyelids. He seriously needs to stop thinking about the Witcher all the goddamn time.

Another knock sounds on the door, this time a little more urgent. Then, a voice. One he would recognize in a million, and he shoots up at the sound of it. “Jaskier?” Maybe it’s not a hallucination, after all. Or maybe it is.

Only one way to find out.

He takes an apple, still on the tray the nice barmaid brought him this morning, and walks to the door. He waits for a second, taking a deep breath, before opening the door quickly. It bounces off the wall a bit, and maybe-Geralt looks up, almost startled, at the sound of it.

The confusion on the Witcher’s face turns into a frown when the apple bounces off his chest. “I deserved that.”

Oh. So it _is_ real Geralt. Huh.

A year of imagining what he would say if he ever saw the Witcher again, what he would do. Would he punch him, close the door on him, would he kiss him? Now, his mind comes up empty, though, as he simply stares at the spot where the apple had hit the broad chest. There’s a piece of the fruit’s skin stuck on the armour, he notices.

He takes a deep breath, still unsure whether he’s going for a death threat or a love confession, or maybe neither. Or maybe both. Instead, he says: “What the fuck, Geralt?”

The Witcher presses his lips together, and looks to the side, clearly unsure as to what to say. His mouth opens and closes, his hand coming up to scratch at his neck. “I uh… had a speech prepared, but… I forgot it.”

Jaskier simply stares at him, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “You… _forgot_ it?”

Geralt pulls the corners of his mouth down, chewing on the inside of his cheek so hard Jaskier can see his teeth grinding down on the skin. “Yeah… I… forgot it.”

They’re quiet for another few moments, Jaskier staring at Geralt, while Geralt stares at anything but Jaskier. Finally, the Bard’s had enough.

“ _Fuck you,_ Geralt. Seriously. What the hell were you thinking? I mean, _really?_ Blaming me for all your problems wasn’t enough, you just _had_ to tell me the things you wanted most in the world was me _gone?_ Seriously?” He’s properly pissed now, the leftover alcohol in his veins only amplifying his emotions and lowering his boundaries, giving him the chance to dump out all the frustration and anger he’s felt over the past year. And two weeks. And five days. And six hours.

Geralt has the decency to look slightly guilty, his gaze directing itself to his feet, then to Jaskier’s grown out hair, then to the scruff on the Bard’s chin, then to his own feet again. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier puts his fists on his hips, blunt nails pressing crescent moons into his palms. “Oh, _now_ you’re sorry? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s been well over a year since you, you know, fucking yelled at me for _no reason._ So now you show up here, _after a year,_ and to… what? Say ‘ _oh, I’m sorry’?_ I don’t know if you know this, dear Witcher, but you really fucking hurt my feelings and ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t going to cut it!”

He’s yelling by the end of his rant, now only a few inches from Geralt’s face, finger pressing into the armour accusingly. Geralt simply looks at him, ever present frown on his face, but guilt in his eyes, too.

The Witcher exhales, long, deep. “I know. I know there’s nothing I can do to make this right.” He sighs again, breath fanning over Jaskier’s skin. “I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I really am. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier takes a step back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “And what if I don’t forgive you?”

The Witcher sighs, once more, seemingly deflating a bit with every breath. “Then I’ll leave. And you’ll never have to see me again, if you don’t want to.”

It is then that Jaskier realizes that he doesn’t _want_ to never see Geralt again. _Well, shit._

_Hope I’m not tired of rebuilding, cause this might take a little more._

He sighs, rolling his eyes. For a second he hesitates. Then, uncrossing his arms, takes a reluctant step to the side. “Come in, I don’t think the other people here will appreciate it if you and I keep talking in the hallway.”

He closes the door behind Geralt, who looks around the slightly dishevelled room. The Witcher bends, picking up an empty bottle of Cintran ale. “You’ve been drinking.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Yeah, well, you’ve given me reason to drink.”

Geralt sighs, putting the bottle down on the table, next to the still full tray the nice barmaid delivered this morning, the one that Jaskier had taken the apple from. The Witcher frowns, lightly touching the edge of the tray with his fingertips. “You’re not eating, either.”

Jaskier sighs, rolling his eyes as he leans against the door. “Look, if all you’re going to do is start criticizing me _again,_ then you can leave, Geralt. Seriously.”

Geralt turns around, leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed. “I’m just worried about you.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline again and he lets out a chuckle that contains no humour. “You didn’t seem to worry about me when you told me to fuck off on a monster-overrun mountain.” Geralt looks down at his feet again, but Jaskier can’t stop the words now, as old hurt resurfaces, still as painful as it was a year ago. “You didn’t seem to be bothered about leaving me in this big, scary world you kept warning me about.”

“Jaskier, I-“

“I’m not done, _Geralt._ ” The Witcher clamps his mouth shut, still looking at his feet as Jaskier continues: “You warned me about how dangerous the world can be without a Witcher by my side. Well, you were right. I got attacked by monsters, I got robbed, I got beaten up for no reason other than people thought it was _fun._ So are you happy now, Geralt? Did you at least finally get your _blessed silence?”_

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, looking at Jaskier apologetically, shaking his head slightly.

Jaskier smiles tightly, the action almost painful. _Guess I forgot how to smile._ “I just have one question, Geralt. Just answer honestly, and I’ll consider forgiving you.” The Witcher looks up expectantly, sunflower eyes containing hope and sincerity like Jaskier’s never seen before, and he wonders if Geralt’s eyes have always been so beautiful, or if he’s just forgotten.

He shrugs the thought away, instead focusing on the anger and hurt that’s still there, in the pit of his stomach. “How could you, Geralt?”

The Witcher sighs, uncrossing his arms, gripping the table edge behind him. Vulnerable, open. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

Jaskier scoffs as the silence stretches between them. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Geralt, what you said hurt me, a lot. It fucked me up and… I haven’t been the same since. And now you come here after a year, and you tell me you _don’t know_ why you said what you said, why you hurt me like that?” He sighs, casting his eyes up at the wooden ceiling. “If that’s really all you have to say for yourself, then I need you to leave, Geralt.”

“Look, I just… I _don’t know._ I wasn’t thinking straight and I was angry and I guess I just needed someone to take it out on. And you were there, and I just… snapped. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.” It’s silent for a few more seconds, and finally, Geralt really looks him in the eye. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said, I shouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself. I’m sorry, I was wrong. Please forgive me.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please’.”

Geralt clenches his jaw, closing his eyes for just a second, before looking at the Bard again. “Yeah, well, you’re worth saying ‘please’ for.”

Jaskier genuinely smiles at that, a chuckle escaping his lips for what seems to be the first time in a year, two weeks, five days, and six hours. And a half. “Geralt, that has _got_ to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

The Witcher laughs, too, sunshine on a winter’s day, the first light of dawn after a year of darkness. “Yeah, well, you’re worth saying stupid things for, as well.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Seriously, my dear Witcher, do you not have _any_ dignity left? You show up to this shithole of a town, and – look at you – you haven’t taken a bath in _weeks._ And then you start saying corny stuff like that? I can’t believe this.”

Geralt frowns a bit, though the smile is still on his face. “You’re one to talk. You’re drunk in the middle of the day, you’re unshaven, your hair’s a mess. Seriously, of all people, I would’ve thought that you could handle heartbreak the best.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and Geralt’s smile dies down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-“

“No, you’re right. I could’ve… dealt with it a bit better. But I’m glad you’re here now, Geralt.” He smiles, lightly, and feels an old spark rekindle in his chest as sunflower eyes look into his.

“I’m glad I’m here, too, Jaskier. I missed you.” That old, familiar, crooked smile, and the spark grows.

Jaskier laughs. “I missed you too, you big softie.”

_I think I’d like to try look at you and feel the way I did before._

_҉ ҉ ҉_

They’re sitting downstairs, in a corner of the room – as Geralt prefers, Jaskier remembers. Though, after twenty-two years together, little things like that are hard to forget, anyways. _Not that I haven’t tried._

The nice barmaid who always brings Jaskier food is surprised to see him outside of his room at this hour – he usually comes downstairs late in the evening, when he’s already well past drunk. She’s even more surprised to see him in Geralt’s company, her big, brown eyes asking him silently if everything’s alright. He nods at her reassuringly, as Geralt orders two plates of food and a pitcher of water.

Jaskier frowns. “Okay, first of all, you’re wasting your coin. I’m not hungry.”

Geralt scoffs. “I don’t care, you have to eat something.”

Jaskier ignores it, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed. “ _Secondly,_ since when did you stop ordering ale with your food?”

The Witcher blinks, once, twice. “Since now.” He leans back as well as the nice barmaid comes back with their food and the pitcher of water. Jaskier smiles at her and she smiles back, shooting the Witcher another suspicious glare before hurrying off to another patron who’s loudly calling for some wine.

 _I could use some wine right about now._ Jaskier sighs, scratching at that annoying beard as he looks at the plate full of food. It doesn’t smell appalling, and it looks alright, but, as he said earlier, he’s just not hungry.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Eat, Jaskier.” He’s still leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, and the Bard can’t help but notice the way the Witcher eyes his own plate hungrily.

He sighs. “Geralt, I told you I’m not hungry. And I know you are, I’ve spent enough time with you to know what you look like when you’re famished.”

Geralt merely looks up, sunflower eyes stubborn. “I’m not eating until you are.” Jaskier sighs again, rolling his eyes. “Jaskier, I’m serious. You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“So? It’s not as if you’re worried about me, clearly. You weren’t a year ago, so why would you be, now?” Anger flares up in him again, old hurt churning in the pit of his stomach.

“Seriously? _That_ again? I said I was sorry, what more do you want?” Jaskier can see Geralt’s jaw clenching in annoyance, and it yanks his mind back to those twenty-two years, and how the Witcher had given him that look plenty of times.

He pulls his eyebrows up. “Oh, yeah, you’re right. ‘Sorry’ totally makes up for everything you said. Hell, it even makes up for the way you’ve treated me for twenty-two years. Yeah, it’s all fine now, it’s all completely okay.”

Geralt sighs, leaning forwards, his forearms on either side of his plate. “Look, I know I fucked up, and you’re right, you deserve better. But,” his hands clench into fists and Jaskier knows the Witcher is properly angry now, “you’re being a little shit for the sake of being a little shit, so _stop it_ and just eat your _goddamn food._ ” By the end of his sentence, his voice has dropped into a hiss, which is the Geralt-equivalent of shouting.

Jaskier leans forwards as well, placing his forearms on either side of his plate, too, hands flat on the table. He narrows his eyes at the Witcher, who clenches his jaw. “Maybe I _am_ being a little shit, but you can’t tell me what to do here, Geralt. So no, I’m not eating the _goddamn food._ ”

In reality, he _is_ kind of getting hungry, but he’s also insanely stubborn, and not willing to give in to the Witcher just yet. Okay – maybe he is still angry about what happened, maybe he is still hurt. Maybe seeing Geralt again just makes things worse.

But maybe he’s also happy to see the Witcher. Maybe he misses the old banter, having someone who pushes back against his nonsense. Maybe he just wants to have an outlet for his anger and his loneliness, and maybe Geralt is just _right there,_ being equally annoying and stubborn.

He nearly smiles at that. _Two thick-headed, stubborn idiots. Just like old times._

They stare at each other for a few seconds, neither of them relenting, flames in their eyes, and it’s almost as though last year never happened. A stark contrast with the careful coldness between them less than an hour ago.

_Oh, our fire died last winter. All of the shouting blew it out._

He feels Geralt’s breath fanning against his skin, and his eyes flicker down for a split second to the Witcher’s lips, only an inch or two away from his. He looks back up, meeting sunflower eyes. He curls his fingers a bit, blunt fingernails scraping against the wood of the table, sending tiny shivers up his spine.

A heartbeat passes, and another, and another, and he can’t help himself. Softly, slowly, he leans forward, the gap between them narrowing bit by bit, and he can see Geralt’s eyes flutter shut, and-

“You two need anything?” They both pull back, looking up at the nice barmaid – who Jaskier thinks is not so nice anymore, all of a sudden. She looks between them, eyes nervous, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her apron, as she seems to realize she might have actually interrupted something.

Jaskier blinks, as the silence stretches between the three of them. He clears his throat, trying to find his voice again. “No… we’re good, thanks.” He tries to giver her his most reassuring smile, and she hesitantly smiles back, before walking away quickly.

He sighs, looking down at his still full plate, the food probably cold by now. He closes his eyes for a second, unsure of what’s going on, of what he’s feeling. He’s still angry with Geralt, of course, but just now it had felt as though there had ben a magnet pulling them together, somehow.

But that’s ridiculous, he concludes, as he looks up at Geralt, who’s staring daggers into his – also still full – plate. When he looks at the Witcher, he feels angry, and hurt, and sad. Not at all how he used to feel whenever he saw Geralt. And yet…

If it hadn’t been for the barmaid interrupting them, who knows what could’ve happened. Nothing good, probably.

He scoffs and Geralt looks up, dandelion eyes seemingly just as bewildered as Jaskier feels. The Bard sighs, rolling his eyes a bit before looking at the Witcher again. “Fine. I’ll eat.” Geralt smiles triumphantly, annoying the shit out of him. So, he puts his finger up. “But-“ Geralt’s smile falters “you have to take a bath. You’re filthy.”

Geralt frowns at him. “Fine.” Jaskier smirks, face dropping a bit as the Witcher continues: “But only if you take one, too. And shave.”

Jaskier leans forwards again. “Don’t think you’re in much of a position to bargain, Witcher.”

Geralt moves forward as well, once more, eyes narrowing at the Bard. “That gentleman in the corner asked the innkeeper in which room you’re staying. He has a knife and a brand on his arm that says he’s a convicted thief. Big chance he’s going to rob you tonight, if I’m not around.”

Jaskier cocks his head, glancing at the sleazy-looking guy, catching him staring. He looks back at Geralt. “So, you’re telling me that if I don’t eat, take a bath, and shave, you’ll go away and leave me in mortal danger?” The Witcher nods curtly, lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s not bargaining, Geralt, that’s blackmail.”

The Witcher smirks. “I don’t care.”

“Oh, but I think you _do_ care, my dear Witcher.” Geralt frowns, looking away for a split second, and Jaskier knows he’s right. “I think you’re just willing to blackmail me as long as I ask you to stay.”

“And are you going to? Ask me to stay?” The Witcher is serious now, eyes looking into Jaskier’s unrelentingly, as though looking for a clue as to what the Bard is thinking.

Jaskier smirks, pulling up an eyebrow, looking to the side as he thinks. Finally, he looks back, purses his lips. “No.” Geralt clenches his jaw. “But I’m not going to tell you to leave, either.”

The Witcher leans back, extending his hand. “So we have a deal?”

Jaskier smiles, shaking Geralt’s hand, letting go quickly, his skin tingling where it had been touched. “We have a deal.”

_You know I could live without or with you, but I might like having you about._

_҉ ҉ ҉_

The blade of the knife scrapes against his cheek as he moves it down, short hairs falling on the hand he’s using to pull the skin taut. He looks at the image of himself in the mirror, turning his head to take a closer look at the side of his face he’s just shaven. The skin is a bit irritated, red splotches forming, and he puts the knife down, walking to his bag to pull out a bottle of lavender oil.

He applies a bit of it onto his skin, looking in the mirror, checking for spots he missed or stray hairs, as Geralt sits in the bath behind him, scrubbing at his arm furiously. “Stop that, you’re going to irritate your skin.”

Geralt looks up, frowning at his back. “I don’t care.”

Jaskier scoffs, turning around to look at the Witcher. “Oh, you will once your skin gets all red and puffy. It’ll hurt and I’ll need to put lavender oil on it and you’ll complain that the smell makes your nose itch.”

Geralt frowns at him some more, and Jaskier turns back around, shaking his head slightly as he picks up the knife again, rubbing some soap into the scruff on the left side of his face with his other hand. “We’ve been through this before, Geralt. Several times.”

The Witcher scoffs, but does stop rubbing at the skin. “But there’s dirt on my arm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, turning his head to get a clearer view of the left side of his face, carefully placing the shaving knife under his jaw. “Use more soap, then,” he says through clenched teeth, careful not to move too much against the blade.

Geralt dunks his head under water, fingers threading through the matted hair as he comes up, wiping some of the water out of his eyes afterwards. “I already did, and it didn’t work. It’s still there.”

Jaskier sighs, finishing the stroke of the knife carefully, making sure not to nick the skin. “Gods, Geralt, you’re such a big baby. Just use more soap, or leave the dirt there, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t start rubbing at your skin again.”

He laves the knife in the sink, filled with lukewarm water, before wiping it on the towel hanging over his shoulder. He looks in the mirror again, focusing on the rest of his chin and neck, as the silence stretches between them. The last stroke falters a bit as he sees Geralt, taking a towel from next to the bath. “Did you wash your hair with shampoo?”

The Witcher looks up, annoyed. “No. It’s not necessary.”

Jaskier turns around, hand on his hip, eyebrows in his hairline. “Gods, Geralt, _of course_ it’s necessary! Otherwise, your hair’s going to smell like horse fur and smoke. And it’ll get really course once you dry off, and that’s going to make it harder to put in a hair tie. And _that_ is going to make you extremely grumpy and annoyed. So yes, it’s necessary to put shampoo in your hair.”

Geralt sighs, dropping the towel next to the bath, looking up at Jaskier. “Can you pass me the shampoo, then?”

“No.” Geralt narrows his eyes, letting out a long, laborious breath through his nose. _Oh, he’s really angry, now._

“Is there _a reason_ you won’t pass me the shampoo?” He says it through clenched teeth, hands gripping at the side of the tub, knuckles turning white in an effort to not break the wood.

Jaskier smirks, putting the knife down, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Because you didn’t say ‘ _please’_.”

Geralt rolls his jaw around a bit, and Jaskier knows it’s to prevent himself from chewing down on his cheek, a habit the Bard’s been trying to get the Witcher to break _for years._ “I’ve never said ‘please’, why should I start now?”

“Well, that’s not entirely true, Witcher.” Jaskier moves forward, resting his arms on the side of the tub, knees on the wooden floor, as his mind flashes back to fourteen years earlier, before the betrothal feast. _Seems like yesterday._ “You said ‘please’ this afternoon.”

Geralt simply looks at him, index finger picking at the skin around the edge of his thumbnail, something he tends to do when he’s annoyed or nervous, Jaskier knows. “Those are different circumstances.”

“Yes, but you seriously need to get some manners. Also, I like it when you say ‘please’.”

Geralt looks at the ceiling, exhaling deeply and quickly. “ _Fine._ Can you hand me the shampoo, _please?”_

Jaskier laughs, standing up and walking to his bag, taking out a bottle that he’s kept in there for over a year, and tosses it to the Witcher, who catches it, looking at it quizzically. “See, Geralt, was that really so hard?”

The Witcher looks at him. “Yes, it was.” He opens the cap, pouring some of the liquid into his hand, rubbing it into the matted, white hair, before looking at the bottle again, sunflower eyes confused. “What scent is this?”

Jaskier leans against the wall, scratching at a beard that’s no longer there. “It’s cinnamon. Hard to come by. Expensive, too.”

Geralt frowns at the bottle, putting the cap back on, extending it to Jaskier, who shakes his head. “No, keep it. It’s yours.”

The Witcher pulls his arm back, and he looks up at the Bard. “Why?”

Jaskier shrugs. “I know you hate soaps that smell like flowers, but I also want you to smell nice, so… a compromise.”

Geralt blinks, once, twice, before one corner of his mouth lifts up ever so slightly, and he reaches back to carefully put the bottle on his bag, that is lying on a chair behind the bath. He looks at Jaskier again. “Thank you.”

The Bard waves his hand. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You better rinse it out, though, or it will start to cake together and gods know no one wants that.”

Geralt does as he’s told – for once in his bloody life – and Jaskier walks back to the mirror, putting some lavender oil on the left side of his face, dabbing at the red splotches that litter his skin. The smell of the flower overpowers that of the cinnamon he previously smelled, and he feels a bit sad. Cinnamon is his favourite scent, after all.

Geralt doesn’t need to know that, though.

_Yes, these new walls are pretty hard to crack. And it might take a while before I trust you won’t attack._

Geralt insist on getting clean bath water for Jaskier, no matter how many times the Bard tells him it’s a waste of money – it’s not like Geralt was covered in Selkiemore guts, or anything, so the bath water isn’t that dirty. Still, the Witcher doesn’t relent, and Jaskier gives up, sitting on the edge of the bed as Geralt helps the innkeeper dump the bath water out of the window and bring new, hot water from downstairs.

Eventually, the bath is completely filled again, Geralt downstairs, handing the innkeeper some coin, and Jaskier looks at his reflection in the still water. His hair is still too long, and he needs a haircut, but at least the beard is gone. _Starting to look like myself again._

He sighs, taking a small tin of rose bath salt from his bag, sprinkling some in the water, disturbing the image of him-but-not-quite-him. He takes his clothes off, dropping them unceremoniously next to the tub, ignoring the way his ribs stick out a little further than they used to do. He lowers himself into the water, his muscles crying out in relief. He realizes that he’s been more tensed up lately than he had thought. _Well,_ lately _is an understatement._

It would be more accurate to say that he’s been tensed up for the past year, two weeks, five day, seven hours; until now, as he lets the warmth flood him, closing his eyes for a second, letting his body relax.

The door opens, and the peace is gone as Geralt walks in from the bedroom, dropping his half-empty coin pouch next to his bag on the table noisily. Jaskier looks back, pulling up an eyebrow. “You haven’t been busy, lately, I see.” He turns back, taking a bar of soap, rubbing it lightly over his skin. “Not a lot of money you’ve got there.”

He can practically hear Geralt shrug, even with his back turned to the Witcher, and he almost smiles at the familiar lack of verbal response. “You know I can’t see you and I can’t hear you if you don’t say anything, Geralt.”

The Witcher sighs dramatically, walking around the tub, standing in front of Jaskier. He shrugs again. “There, now you know.”

The Bard rolls his eyes, shaking his head slightly as he continues washing himself. “You can be so childish, sometimes, honestly.”

Geralt scoffs. “You’re one to talk.”

Jaskier looks up, eyebrows raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The Witcher hesitates for a moment, golden eyes suddenly a bit scared, it seems – _clearly he regrets saying anything._ “Well, I…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

The Bard rolls his eyes again, taking a bottle of honey shampoo from his bag, next to the bath, spreading some into his too long hair. “Suit yourself then.” He dunks his head under water, rinsing the shampoo out, wiping at his eyes as he comes up again.

Yes, he’s curious as to what Geralt could be talking about, but he’s not going to press further. Firstly – gods know what happened the last time he did. Geralt will push back again, and the brittle trust and hesitant friendship they’ve built up over the past hour will come crashing down like a house of cards in a gust of wind.

Secondly – he’s scared of what the Witcher might say. Clearly, Geralt has never hesitated to call him out on stupid or childish behavior before. So, now that he seems to be holding back his words… well, Jaskier feels like he might not be happy with what the Witcher was going to say.

Still, Geralt hesitates again, opening and closing his mouth, chewing on his cheek. Jaskier sighs. “Please stop doing that, Geralt, you’re going to bite through the skin and you’re going to complain about the pain for the next three days. We’ve been through this before, and it’s annoying.”

The Witcher does stop chewing on his cheek, but adamantly keeps looking at anything and everything that isn’t Jaskier. “Gods, Geralt, just _spit it out._ You’re driving me insane, here. I can’t relax if you’re just going to stand there all evening, looking _scared.”_

The Witcher finally directs his golden eyes towards Jaskier, and takes a deep breath that makes the Bard kind of really nervous. “I was just wondering… why did you leave? It’s not like I haven’t yelled at you before, and you never left, then. So why did you on the mountain?”

Jaskier cocks his head, blinking once, twice. _Seriously?_ “Well, you didn’t blame every problem in your entire life on me, any of the other times, did you?” Geralt is quiet for a second, and Jaskier balls his hands into fists as old hurt resurfaces – not for the first time today. “Geralt, you basically told me you wanted nothing more than for me to leave. So, I left.”

Geralt kneels on the floor, letting his arms rest on the tub – not unlike the position Jaskier was in less than an hour ago. “Yes, but I was being unreasonable, and I thought you’d know that, and you’d just ignore it.”

Jaskier leans forward, elbows on his knees in the water. “So, you yelled at me because you thought I would just let it slide? That I wouldn’t take it personally?”

Geralt frowns, rubbing at his eyes viciously with one hand. “ _Fuck._ No, that’s not what I meant. I just… well, I wasn’t really thinking at the time but if I was, I probably would’ve thought you could…” He sighs, frustrated at his own lack of words, probably. It’s quiet between them for a moment, as Jaskier lets Geralt search for the right thing to say.

“I just thought… you could make everything normal again. That you would laugh in my face and tell me to stop being ridiculous. Just… all this… talk of Destiny, and dragons, and the Law of Surprise and all this weird _shit._ I was just confused, in over my head, and I needed an outlet, but it was never supposed to be _you._ You did everything right, actually. You tried to make things normal again. And I just thought… you knew. Which is why I was surprised you actually left, I guess.”

Geralt looks up at Jaskier from where he’s been staring at his hands, finger picking at the skin around his thumbnail, as the Bard scoots closer, the water of the bath sloshing a bit. “You said it was never supposed to be _me_ you took your anger out on. So who _was_ it supposed to be?”

The Witcher looks to the side, dandelion eyes avoiding Jaskier. “I don’t know.”

Jaskier sighs softly, slowly leaning forward to rest his forehead against Geralt’s. “I think I do.” Sunflower eyes are looking into his, and they both know the truth – but they both know one of them has to say it. And they also know the Witcher doesn’t have the strength to do it.

So Jaskier does. “You were supposed to take it out on yourself, weren’t you?”

Geralt nods, hesitantly, barely moving against the Bard’s forehead. The Witcher closes his eyes, finger picking at his thumb again, the skin starting to turn red. Jaskier lays his hand over Geralt’s, softly separating the fingers. “Stop that, or you’re going to have to put lavender oil on it.” He smiles lightly, as Geralt opens his eyes again. Open. Vulnerable. Hurting. “Yes, my dear Witcher, that _is_ a threat.”

Geralt smiles back, though his face falls again after a few seconds. “How did you know?”

Jaskier chews at his lip, as his mind flashes back to the twenty-two years they spent together. “I know you always take your anger out on yourself, when you feel like you deserve it. You take more contracts, you eat less, take less baths, you zone out, you don’t listen, you look into the distance, and you’re always picking at your goddamn thumb.”

His finger lightly traces over the red skin of Geralt’s thumb. “Just like you’re doing right now.” He presses his forehead into the Witcher’s even harder, to let him know he’s there and that he _cares,_ even if he’s still slightly mad at him for what happened. “And that, my dear Witcher, is how I know you really are sorry. And I forgive you.”

Geralt smiles back, dandelion eyes lighting up like the sun, and _oh gods he’s really close, isn’t he?_ Jaskier pulls back, suppressing a shiver. “Bollocks, the water’s already cold.” He waves his hand in the Witcher’s face, rolling his eyes at the amused smirk Geralt seems to wear so well. “Scoot, I have to get dressed, I’m _freezing.”_

Geralt simply shakes his head slightly, rolling his eyes at Jaskier’s theatrics, and leaves the bathroom. The Bard can’t help but stare for a few seconds after the door closes behind the Witcher, as he realizes he did really mean what he said, just now.

He forgives Geralt.

_Oh, I’d apologize, but it was only self-defense. Running away just made sense._

_҉ ҉ ҉_

Geralt’s already lying on the bed when Jaskier leaves the bathroom, and the Bard shakes his head and laughs. “Wow, made yourself right at home, I see.”

The Witcher simply shrugs, and remains in his spot, arms folded behind his head. “Nowhere else to go.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Jaskier walks around the room, blowing out every candle one by one, shrouding them in darkness. He realizes, too late, that he’s on the other side of the room and has to find his way to the bed blindly. “Ah, bollocks.”

He hears a deep chuckle and he scoffs. “Right, yeah, go ahead and laugh at my misery, Witcher. Really classy, I must say.”

“You’re so dramatic.” He jumps a little as he hears Geralt’s voice, suddenly right next to him, and the Witcher laughs again, taking Jaskier’s arm and leading him – presumably – to the bed. “Watch out for that floorboard, it sticks up a little.” The Bard feels around with his foot, his toes bumping into, indeed, one of the wooden planks, a little bit higher than the others.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, as Geralt leads him to the side of his bed. He sits down, and the Witcher’s hand is gone from his arm, the skin suddenly cold, mourning the loss of contact. He wills it to the back of his mind as he lies down, and he feels the other side of the bed dip next to him.

He manages to grip the blankets just as Geralt starts pulling them towards himself. “Oh, no, I don’t think so, blanket hogger. I’m not planning on freezing to death tonight, thank you very much.”

He can practically hear Geralt rolling his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” But the Witcher’s grip on the blankets does relent, nonetheless, allowing Jaskier to pull them over himself.

His eyes widen a bit as a realization hits him. “Ah, shit.”

He can hear Geralt turn his face towards him on the pillow next to his, the Witcher probably – _definitely_ able to see Jaskier in the darkness. “What?”

The Bard sighs, rubbing at his eyes with the mouse of his hand, trying to fight off the sleep that starts to pull at his limbs a little. “I’ve only paid for the room up until today, so I have to get out of here tomorrow.” He sighs again, flinging his arm over his eyes. “Don’t have any coin left, either. Should probably start performing again.” He mumbles the last part, but – of course – Geralt still hears it.

“Why’d you stop?” He only imagines the concern in the Witcher’s voice, he tells himself. Until he feels movement on the blankets, and knows Geralt is picking at his thumb again.

He slaps his hand in the general direction, somehow hitting his mark. “Geralt, would you _please_ stop doing that? You’re going to seriously hurt yourself one of these days.”

Geralt sighs, but Jaskier can feel that he does stop, nonetheless. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He pulls his arm down from his eyes, looking at the Witcher, even though he can’t see anything. He knows Geralt can, though, and somehow, not facing the Witcher when he’s talking to him feels wrong. “Because, well… turns out heartbreak does the exact opposite to inspiration, than what I always thought it did. Apparently, real heartbreak doesn’t make you sing louder. It shuts you up.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, and all he can do is stare into the darkness. He knows the Witcher hasn’t fallen asleep yet, as his breaths aren’t deep enough for that. _Turns out it’s not easy to forget the way someone breathes when they sleep if you’ve been listening to them for twenty-two years._

Eventually, Geralt speaks, voice soft: “I really am sorry, Jaskier. For everything.”

The Bard smiles. “I know.”

_But here I am with arms unfolding. I guess it isn’t quite the end._

He can hear Geralt’s head turning on the pillow again, probably looking at the ceiling. “You know, I could lend you some money if you’d like to stay here longer.”

Jaskier scoffs lightly, shaking his head a bit. “No, I’m good. I should probably start singing again, really. About time, too.” He narrows his eyes, desperate for a glimpse of the Witcher, something to discern in the darkness. “What about you, though? What are you going to do next?”

He feels Geralt shrug next to him, their shoulders briefly touching, and maybe his arm feels a little warmer than it did before – but that doesn’t matter. “I’m probably going to go to the next big town, see if they have contracts there. Do the same as always.”

The silence stretches between them, again, and the question hangs in the air, unspoken. Jaskier desperately wants Geralt to ask, but also really wants to ask it himself. But there’s no way to do it, really, without sounding desperate and overbearing. He’s only just now forgiven the Witcher, for god’s sake, how could he possibly ask to pick up where they left off without sounding like a stupid, love-struck teen?

And even then, what if Geralt were to turn him down? _Don’t think I would be able to cope, really._

Still, the Witcher doesn’t seem to want to ask him, and Jaskier doesn’t want to ask, either. So they just lie there, staring at the ceiling, and Geralt starts fidgeting with the skin of his thumb again, infuriatingly.

“Gods, Geralt, are you just going to keep doing that until your skin breaks?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, I feel like I have to follow you around and slap your hand every time you do it. Maybe then you’ll learn-“

He clamps his mouth shut, as he realizes what he just said. What he indirectly asked.

It’s silent for a few more moments, and he feels like his heart is about to thump out of his chest, when Geralt chuckles. “Yeah, that’d probably be for the best.”

He hopes the Witcher is still looking at the ceiling and can’t see the Bard smile involuntarily.

He shivers a bit, the blankets barely able to keep the chill of the room away as it creeps into his bones. “Gods, it’s cold here. Aren’t you cold, Geralt?”

He can hear the Witcher turning his face towards him again. “I’m never cold, Jaskier. Did you forget that?”

The Bard frowns a bit. “Huh. Guess I did. Lucky you, I’d love to never be cold again.” He shivers some more. “Especially right now.”

He can hear Geralt chuckle again next to him, and he frowns at the darkness where he hopes the Witcher’s face is. “Great, just laugh at my misery, you cocky bastard. Unbelievable-“

His rant is cut short by a pair of strong arms wrapping around him, pulling him into Geralt’s side. “Please just shut up and go to sleep.”

He lays there for a second, muscles frozen, until he relaxes into the Witcher’s embrace. He has to admit, though – it really does help, and he feels warmth seep into his skin. “You’re a walking furnace, my dear Witcher,” he mumbles into Geralt’s shoulder.

Another low chuckle, this time right in his ear, that sends shivers down his spine that have nothing to do with the cold he no longer feels. “Just go to sleep, Jaskier.”

He smiles. “Okay, fine.” He risks slinging his arm over the Witcher’s chest, softly pressing his nose into Geralt’s shoulder, the scent of cinnamon filling his head. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Hmm.” He smiles at that, and he feels Geralt’s breath deepening. _He’s definitely sleeping, now._

And, for the first time in a year, two months, five days, and eight hours, he feels himself drifting away into a peaceful sleep. Right before he slips into unconsciousness, he feels an old spark rekindling in his chest, fueled by the warmth of his Witcher next to him.

_Old partner in crime, I’m going to try to fall in love with you again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also! Come follow me or yell at me or talk to me or stalk me or WHATEVER on tumblr @queen-squish, I also post memes and edits there, it's great fun, and you're welcome to come by if you're in the neighbourhood!


	4. Would You Be So Kind (As To Fall In Love With Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has lyrics from Would You Be So Kind by dodie.
> 
> Also uh... I know it's been a while, and from the bottom of my heart: my bad. (But also this chapter is 10k words so I hope it's worth the long wait lmao)(also I have like 5 other WIPs going on right now, so if you like my writing, please do check them out!)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and please do leave kudos and a comment!

He’s lying on the bed, arms folded behind his head, as he stares up at the ceiling. The faint smell of cinnamon hangs in the air around him, clinging to his hair, calming him somehow, though he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because it reminds him that this is not a dream – after all, he’s never _smelled_ anything in his dreams before – and that Jaskier is, in fact, next door, in the bathroom.

He pushes the images his mind provides away – the ones showing him the Bard getting out of the bath, drying off, soft towel on even softer skin, following gentle curves and strong angles and- _stop it, Geralt, don’t be fucking weird._

He grinds his teeth together, instead opting to focus on something else. The faint scent of stale ale wafting through the floorboards, slightly pushing through the scent of the cinnamon shampoo Jaskier has given him. The wooden beams above him, a little weathered, a mysterious stain in one of the corners he can’t quite identify, though he isn’t sure if he wants to know what it is, anyways. The feel of the slightly too hard and too thin mattress underneath him.

He wouldn’t really believe Jaskier’s been sleeping here all week, if it hadn’t been for his scent of strawberries and campfire smoke in the sheets and pillows.

He takes a deep breath, as he hears Jaskier stumble around in the bathroom, closing his eyes and slightly smiling, as the realization truly hits him, for the first time that night. _Jaskier’s forgiven me._

If it hadn’t been for the scent of cinnamon, ale, strawberries and campfire smoke, he wouldn’t have been able to believe that this wasn’t a dream. Not only has Jaskier forgiven him, he’s not told Geralt to fuck off, either – not in the past hour, at least. Truly, that’s already more than he had been hoping for, this morning.

Now, if only he wasn’t too much of a coward to ask the Bard to start travelling with him again – but no, he’s too scared. _Of course you are, you always are when it concerns him._ He doesn’t bother to disagree with the little voice. He knows it’s true.

He looks up as Jaskier comes out of the bathroom, a small cloud of rose-scented steam billowing behind him, abruptly cut off as the Bard shuts the door again. Jaskier shakes his head and laughs, and it is not the most beautiful sound Geralt’s heard in the past year, _no sir._ “Wow, made yourself right at home, I see.”

Geralt shrugs, unsure of what to say to that. Most of all, he just wanted to be able to smell strawberries and campfire smoke again, and going through Jaskier’s clothes and sniffing them didn’t immediately seem like the brightest idea.

“Yeah, whatever.” Jaskier walks around the room, blowing out every candle one by one. Geralt frowns and cocks his head. _Won’t that leave him in darkness? Humans can’t see in the dark, right?_

His suspicions are confirmed when Jaskier blows out the last candle on the opposite side of the room, suddenly freezing in his tracks as his eyes dart across the room. “Ah, bollocks.” Geralt can’t help but chuckle at the familiar cursing.

He stands up as Jaskier puts his fists on his hips. “Right, yeah, go ahead and laugh at my misery, Witcher. Really classy, I must say.”

He’s right next to the Bard, now, and he doesn’t feel the urge to reach out and trails his fingers over Jaskier’s collarbone, where it peeks out from under his shirt. He does not feel the need to bury his nose in Jaskier’s neck, to lose himself in that elusive scent of strawberries and smoke. And he definitely does _not_ want to kiss the Bard, _obviously._ Instead, he leans a bit closer. “You’re so dramatic.”

He laughs as Jaskier jumps a bit, wildly looking around, trying to see anything. _Oh, how I’ve missed you._ He grabs Jaskier’s arm, his fingers tingling a bit as he does so, leading the Bard around the bed.

He stops in his tracks, pointing to one of the floorboards – even though he knows pointing is useless right now – that’s a bit crooked. “Watch out for that floorboard, it sticks up a little.” He can see Jaskier feeling around with his foot, stepping over the plank when he’s found it.

“Thanks,” Jaskier mumbles, eyes still searching around the room in a desperate attempt to see anything, as Geralt leads him to the side of the bed, letting go of his arm before his mind can get any other crazy ideas – like thinking that Geralt wants to touch Jaskier every day for the rest of his life, or that he wants to kiss the Bard, or anything totally untrue and false like that.

He lies down on the other side of the bed, already starting to pull the blankets over himself before Jaskier’s clear voice stops him. “Oh, no, I don’t think so, blanket hogger. I’m not planning on freezing to death tonight, thank you very much.”

He rolls his eyes, but relents nonetheless. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

He closes his eyes, ready to go to sleep, when Jaskier speaks again, though this time softer, as if only talking to himself: “Ah, shit.”

He opens his eyes, turning to see Jaskier staring up at the ceiling, wide-eyed, and maybe he does feel a _small_ tendril of concern curling around his throat at the Bard’s expression. “What?”

Jaskier sighs, rubbing his eyes a bit. “I’ve only paid for the room up until today, so I have to get out of here tomorrow.” _Oh, that’s it? You’re welcome to join me on the road._ He keeps quiet, though, afraid he might come off too strong if he said that. Jaskier continues: “Don’t have any coin left, either.” Then, quieter: “Should probably start performing again.”

Geralt _definitely_ feels concerned at the fact that Jaskier apparently hasn’t been performing lately. That’s always been one of the constants in life he could truly rely on. The sun rises every day, monsters and people alike will try to attack him, and Jaskier sings. Until now, it seems.

“Why’d you stop?” He feels a sharp slap on his hand, and realizes he’s been picking at the skin around his thumbnail again, something he tends to do when he’s angry or worried, Jaskier’s pointed out before.

“Geralt would you _please_ stop doing that? You’re seriously going to hurt yourself one of these days.” _I don’t care about that, I only care about you._

He doesn’t say that, though, once again too afraid of what Jaskier might do or say. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says instead.

He can see Jaskier turning his head, his eyes searching for Geralt in the darkness. “Because, well… turns out heartbreak does the exact opposite to inspiration, that what I always thought it did. Apparently, real heartbreak doesn’t make you sing louder. It shuts you up.” And _oh gods, what have I done to him?_

He doesn’t really know what to say, doesn’t know how to convey how guilty and remorseful he feels about what he’s done. “I really am sorry, Jaskier. For everything,” is all he can say.

And maybe his heart jumps a little as he can see Jaskier smiling in the darkness. Maybe he has a bit more trouble breathing at the realization that the Bard has truly forgiven him, as he replies: “I know.”

_I have a question, it might seem strange. How are your lungs? Are they in pain?_

He shifts his head on the pillow, trying – and luckily, succeeding – in pushing a new wave of strawberries and campfire smoke from the fabric. He breathes it in, letting it calm him completely, though he’s still not able to breathe as deeply as he was before. He frowns, as Jaskier’s smile fades away. “You know, I could lend you some money if you’d like to stay here longer.”

The Bard scoffs a bit, shaking his head slightly, eyes still on Geralt’s face, though he knows Jaskier can’t see him. So, he smiles a little, just for the hell of it. Because Jaskier does that to him. _Cursed Bard, can’t even let me keep my emotions in._

“No, I’m good. I should probably start singing again, really. About time too.” Jaskier narrows his eyes at Geralt. “What about you, though? What are you going to do next?”

The Witcher shrugs, an action that makes their shoulders briefly touch, and _oh gods, oh fuck, do_ not _stretch your arm out to touch him again, Geralt._ “I’m probably going to go to the next big town, see if they have contracts there. Do the same as always.”

The silence stretches between them, as the question hangs in the air, unspoken. He desperately wants to ask Jaskier to come along with him, but he’s also scared of the answer. Because, surely, Jaskier won’t agree, right? He’s only barely forgiven Geralt, and the last thing he wants to do is push the Bard away again. _Don’t think I would be able to cope, really._

He doesn’t notice he’s started fidgeting with the skin of his thumb again until Jaskier says something about it. “Gods, Geralt, are you just going to keep doing that until your skin breaks? Seriously, I feel like I have to follow you around and slap your hand every time you do it. Maybe then you’ll learn-“

His rant stops abruptly, eyes squeezing together tightly, as they both realize what he indirectly asked.

Geralt smiles again, and he’s immensely glad Jaskier can’t see him in the dark. “Yeah, that’d probably be for the best.”

His lungs constrict again as he sees Jaskier smile broadly, and _oh gods, don’t kiss him, don’t kiss him, don’t kiss him-_

Jaskier shivers, face scrunching up in what is _not_ a totally adorable way. “Gods, it’s cold here. Aren’t you cold, Geralt?”

Geralt shakes his head, realizing too late that Jaskier, indeed, still can’t see him. “I’m never cold, Jaskier. Did you forget that?”

The Bard frowns a bit. “Huh. Guess I did. Lucky you, I’d love to never be cold again.” He shivers some more. “Especially right now.”

He laughs again, as his mind comes up with the most ridiculous way to stop Jaskier’s complaining. _No. Not going to do that._ Jaskier frowns again, and _okay maybe I am going to do that._ “Great, just laugh at my misery, you cocky bastard. Unbelievable-“

His rant is cut short when Geralt wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. “Please just shut up and go to sleep.” _Because I can barely resist kissing you when you talk._

Jaskier is stiff as a board, but relaxes after a few seconds, nuzzling into Geralt’s neck, and he catches a whiff of strawberries and campfire smoke. _This is going to be harder than I thought._

“You’re a walking furnace, my dear Witcher,” he mumbles into Geralt’s shoulder, and the vibrations of Jaskier’s voice send tingles down his spine that he blames on the cold feet pressing against his leg.

He laughs again at the Bard’s refusal to shut up for once. “Just go to sleep, Jaskier.”

A soft sigh against his shoulder, and what he hopes is a smile. “Okay, fine.” And his lungs constrict when he feels an arm wrap around his torso, Jaskier’s nose pressing into his shoulder. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Hmm.” He smiles, though he still has trouble breathing. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, however. It reminds him of sparring with his brothers in Kaer Morhen, and being out of breath. It reminds him of running through a field of wildflowers when he was younger.

It reminds him of every time he’s seen Jaskier in the past twenty-three years.

_Cause mine are aching, think I know why. I kinda like it, though. You wanna try?_

_҉ ҉ ҉_

He wakes up to a cold, empty bed, the sheets crumpled next to him, and maybe his heart does constrict painfully at the thought of Jaskier leaving him behind. He sits up, looking around the room, ears open for any sound of the Bard – but he hears nothing. His hopes are dwindling fast and _you should’ve known, should’ve anticipated this, for who would ever willingly stay with you, Geralt?_

He takes a deep and totally not slightly shuddering breath, as he closes his eyes for a second. He can still smell cinnamon in his hair, and strawberries and campfire smoke on the sheets, though he knows the scents will be gone soon – just like the last trace of the only person he cares about in this world.

He can feel his hands fisting the sheets, and makes no effort to release his grip, as he opens his eyes again – at least he’s not picking at his thumb again. _Jaskier would hate it if he did._ He looks around the room, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. _Maybe if I hurry I can still catch up with him._

His eye is caught, however, by Jaskier’s bag in the corner, previously hidden from view by the foot of the bed, now visible from where he’s sitting on the edge. _Oh._

He closes his eyes again, letting his head hang a bit as relief washed over him. The Bard hasn’t left.

His head shoots up again as the door opens and – _speak of the devil –_ Jaskier walks in. “Ah, you’re finally awake! Was a real hassle to extract myself from your grip this morning, I’ll tell you that.”

He walks to his bag, rummaging around in it, shoving things aside, dumping a few expensive-looking doublets on the floor unceremoniously. He suddenly stills and looks up, eyebrows pulled up, eyes expectant. “Are you going to get dressed or not?” He looks back into his bag, pulling out his coin pouch, dangerously empty. “Unless you want to eat breakfast without a shirt on. If so, suit yourself, I guess.”

He stands up, walking to the door, as Geralt remains seated on the edge of the bed, dumbfounded. Jaskier turns around, already halfway in the hall. “Come on, Geralt. We haven’t got all day.” With that, he’s gone.

He sits there for another minute or so, not sure if what he just saw was real or not. If so, that’d mean Jaskier is not only still there, but he also wants to… have breakfast? _Huh. Guess I didn’t chase him away, after all._

_Not yet, at least._

He sighs, finally getting up to get dressed for breakfast.

As he’s pulling on his shirt, his mind wanders, several questions racing through his thoughts – questions he doesn’t have an answer to, infuriatingly enough. Firstly, why hasn’t Jaskier left already? Sure, Geralt apologized and the Bard seems to have forgiven him, but still, there’s no reason – at least none that Geralt can think of – why Jaskier should have to put up with him.

Secondly, what will happen after breakfast? Jaskier said last night that he would leave the inn and move on, maybe even start performing again. And he did say they would start travelling together again – but indirectly and jokingly. Did he mean it? If so, how would it go? Would they simply leave the inn together, or would Geralt have to awkwardly ask Jaskier some way or another?

And if he didn’t mean it? Would he say so outright? Or would Geralt turn around on the road, only to find it empty behind him? Or would Jaskier maybe leave before Geralt did? Then what? Would he chase after the Bard? Or would he let Jaskier go, just like he did a year ago?

Would his heart be able to take it?

He rubs at his eyes, groaning in frustration at his own indecisiveness and insecurity, at the unsure future ahead of him. He walks down the stairs, pausing at the bottom of them, as he hears a hearty laugh, one he’s been longing to hear for a year, one that makes his lungs clench in his chest.

Jaskier is still smiling when the barmaid walks away, slightly giggling to himself about whatever they had said to each other that had made him laugh so hard. Geralt pauses again, this time in the middle of the room, halfway between the stairs and the table Jaskier’s sitting at – in the corner, just as Geralt always prefers. _Did he remember that or is it just a coincidence?_

Jaskier looks up, and _oh gods, oh no, oh fuck, he looks so unbelievably beautiful when he laughs._ Did he never notice that before or did he just forget – the memory buried under the pained expression he had seen on Jaskier’s face a year ago?

His lungs constrict in his chest again, as he takes place opposite Jaskier, two steaming plates of breakfast, a table, and a million words unsaid between them. At the back of his mind, he notes the fact that his heartbeat has sped up, while Jaskier’s remains steady and slow – and that it makes him sad, for some reason.

_Would you be so kind as to fall in love with me? You see, I’m trying._

He pushes the thought away, staring daggers into his plate as he shovels eggs and vegetables into his mouth. Still, he can’t help but notice that Jaskier’s barely touched his food. Geralt stops eating, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, as Jaskier continues to frown at his plate.

“You need to eat.” The Bard looks up, seemingly pulled out of his daze by Geralt’s voice.

He shrugs, pushing some eggs around with his fork. “I’m not hungry.” _Great, this game again._

Geralt leans forward. “We talked about this yesterday, Jaskier. You’ve lost weight and it-“ he chokes on his words, unable to tell the Bard how much he worries for his safety and health. He clears his throat. “Besides, you need a good breakfast if you want to set out on the road again, today.”

Jaskier shrugs again. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, really. And if not, well…” he shoots Geralt a quick grin, and the Witcher feels his heartbeat pick up again. “I’ve got you there, now, don’t I?” He says it jokingly, airily, but Geralt can see the hesitation in his eyes, the quiet and unsure hope.

He blinks, once, twice. “Yes, of course.” Jaskier smiles genuinely, now, and as much as it overjoys Geralt, as much as it makes his heart race, he still feels like he doesn’t deserve it. What has he done to earn this trust Jaskier has placed in him, so quickly and blindly, even after Geralt had broken his heart? _Nothing, that’s what._

He frowns, sighing deeply as Jaskier still pushes his food around on his plate, and he can’t help but remember how thin Jaskier had felt, how much his ribs had been sticking out, when Geralt had held him last night. He scratches at his neck, searching his mind for a way to convince Jaskier to just eat _something._ Yesterday, bargaining had helped, but what can he offer Jaskier, now?

Finally, after a minute or so of contemplating, eyes frantically searching around the room for any sort of inspiration, an idea presents itself in the back of his mind. “If you eat your breakfast, I’ll let you ride Roach today.”

Jaskier looks up at that. “You’ve barely ever let me touch Roach.”

Geralt nods, then shrugs. “Yeah, well…” He shrugs again. “We got a deal?”

And _oh gods, oh fuck,_ Jaskier’s brilliantly blue eyes light up at the prospect, and maybe Geralt does feel something flutter in his chest, and maybe he totally doesn’t. It doesn’t matter.

Jaskier nods, picking up his fork in earnest, now. “We got ourselves a deal, my dear Witcher.”

And, thank the gods, he actually starts eating, slowly at first, eventually picking up his pace a little bit, until he seems to be eating like he used to. Geralt sighs softly, in relief, and looks around the room – out the window, at his plate, at Jaskier again, glancing away when the Bard looks up. He’s excited at the prospect of travelling together again, but he’s also scared – scared it will never be the same between them again, scared the silence of the past year will come back, even if Jaskier is there again.

Yes, confusingly, _infuriatingly,_ the fear makes for new fears, somehow. He’s scared that, because he’s afraid of the silence, he might talk too much, say the wrong thing, in an attempt to fill the void between them. What if Jaskier finds out how Geralt truly feels about him? What if he finds out the Witcher’s heart speeds up every time he sees the Bard? What if he finds out Geralt wants nothing more than to fall asleep and wake up with Jaskier in his arms each and every day?

What if he finds out? What if he doesn’t feel the same way?

What if it drives him away?

Geralt frowns, blinking at the dirty window a few times, as doubt rages through him, a certainty dawning underneath it, like a Selkiemore from the depths of the ocean. He looks at Jaskier, who finally scrapes the last bits of food off his plate, brow furrowed in concentration as the fork scratches over the ceramic.

Why wouldn’t Jaskier know?

Geralt came all this way, travelled across the Continent in search of the Bard, following every tiny rumour and whisper, until he finally found Jaskier. He apologized, profusely, multiple times, for all the hurt he had put the Bard through, over the years. He had held Jaskier close, when he was cold last night. He had stayed in the morning, had breakfast with him. He had promised Jaskier that he could ride Roach – and the Bard _knows_ how protective he is of the mare.

Surely, someone as observant as Jaskier would know. Would see how Geralt truly felt.

And he hasn’t said anything about it.

So obviously, he doesn’t feel the same way.

Maybe Geralt’s heart cracks a little at that, as Jaskier stands up with a broad smile, carrying the two empty plates to the barmaid, slapping the Witcher on the shoulder as he walks past. He comes back a few seconds later, leaning against the table, arms crossed, brown hair framed by the morning light like a halo.

“There we go. I finished my breakfast!” He smirks down at Geralt, who merely grunts in response, too caught up in the realization that Jaskier sees him as nothing more than a friend – if that – to fully understand what the Bard is saying.

Jaskier simply laughs. “Don’t be upset, Geralt! I’ll take good care of Roach, don’t worry.” And with another pat on his shoulder, he disappears back up the stairs, leaving Geralt alone in the dining room, staring at his hands, trying to gather the pieces of himself. He follows after a minute or two.

_I know you know that I like you, but that’s not enough. So if you will, please fall in love._

_҉ ҉ ҉_

When he finally makes it up the stairs, Jaskier has already packed most of his stuff. Geralt hasn’t even unpacked his, so he can simply sling his bag over his shoulder, as the Bard flits around the room, checking under the bed, behind the table, at the bottom of the wardrobe, to see if he hasn’t missed any of his belongings.

Eventually, he seems to decide that he does, in fact, have everything he needs, and turns to Geralt, who’s standing in the corner, arms crossed. “Ready whenever you are, Witcher.”

Geralt nods, opening the door for Jaskier, who bounds down the stairs, bag over his shoulder, lute in hand, a stark contrast with the man Geralt was met with yesterday, when he first knocked on the door. It seems as though he’s translucent, sunlight shining through him, as he walks outside, watching from a few yards away as Jaskier coos at Roach, feeding her way too many sugar cubes. He knows he should say something about spoiling her rotten, but seeing Jaskier so happy, so satisfied, so unbelievably _Jaskier,_ makes something inside him light and airy, even though he finds he has some trouble breathing. It’s a weird, contrasting feeling, but he decides he doesn’t mind.

“Come on,” he says, eventually, walking over to Roach, strapping their bags to her saddle, “it’s time to go. I want to reach the next town by noon.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but steps away from the mare nonetheless. “Fine, fine. Lead the way, then.”

Geralt frowns as Jaskier begins walking down the path heading west. “Jaskier,” he calls after the Bard, who turns around at his voice, eyes confused, “you do remember _you_ get to ride Roach today, right?”

Blue eyes light up, and so does Geralt’s chest, as the realization hits Jaskier. “Oh, yeah! Forgot about that, really.” He practically bounces over to the horse, who snorts at his theatrics, and Geralt helps him up, into the saddle.

Jaskier beams as he looks around, probably not used to the way the world looks from up there, and maybe Geralt has a little trouble removing his hand from where it’s laying on the Bard’s leg. He startles a bit as Jaskier catches him staring, and he takes a quick step back, hoping he won’t say anything about it. To no avail.

“What?” Jaskier asks, blue eyes the same colour as the sky above them – brilliant, bright, full of sunshine and hope and another bright, happy thing Geralt can’t quite identify, but makes something flutter in the pit of his stomach.

He shakes his head, taking Roach’s reigns in his hand, leading them down the path. “Nothing.”

_I think it’s only fair, there’s gotta be some butterflies somewhere, wanna share?_

The ride to the next town is fairly quiet, though birds whistle in the woods around them, and other travelers cross their path once or twice. Still, Geralt feels something uncomfortable in his chest, when Jaskier doesn’t sing, doesn’t ramble, or hum, or play his lute, or anything the Witcher has gotten used to in their twenty-odd years together.

Still, Jaskier has a content smile on his face as he looks around, taking in the trees and the birds and all the other flowers and forest creatures, as Geralt can’t help but look at the way the sunlight filters through the foliage, casting golden spots on Jaskier’s skin.

He manages to look away every time the Bard is about to catch him staring.

They reach the town by noon, luckily. It’s fairly big, with a market and a few shops, but nothing special. There aren’t too many people in the cobblestone streets, and fortunately, Roach manages not to step on anyone’s toes.

Geralt stops at the stall that sells ingredients for potions, right next to the one that sells dried food – both things he needs if he is to set out on the road again. Jaskier hops off the mare, and the Witcher looks at him questioningly. The Bard gives him a toothy grin that maybe has Geralt’s heart fluttering, before pointing to the barber’s across the street.

“Just going to get a haircut. Can’t start performing again looking like this, can I?” he asks, gesturing at his almost shoulder-length hair. Geralt doesn’t mention the fact that he likes Jaskier’s hair either way. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, dear Witcher.”

With that, he’s gone, and Geralt’s left by himself in the market. And maybe, he’s scared he’ll never see Jaskier again – that the Bard will leave without him.

He chastises himself for being so ridiculous; of course Jaskier’s coming back, why wouldn’t he? _Because you’re an asshole_ – his mind provides unhelpfully. He shakes the thought away, and turns to the salesman who’s looking at him expectantly.

His lungs constrict in his chest, nonetheless, and it’s no longer a pleasant feeling.

_Cause I like you but that’s not enough. So if you will, please fall in love with me._

_҉ ҉ ҉_

He grows tense, then nervous, then angry and upset, and eventually resigned, when Jaskier hasn’t returned after an hour and a half. He checked out the barber’s shop, but the man told him the Bard had left forty minutes earlier. He wandered around the market, waited by Roach, and looked into some side alleys leading away from the main square.

All to no avail. Jaskier was nowhere to be found.

He stayed at the market nonetheless. Sure, Jaskier might’ve simply left him, but maybe something happened to the Bard, and Geralt might have to ask the locals for information – if anyone’s seen anything suspicious.

Besides, what if something did happen to Jaskier, but he manages to drag himself to the market and Geralt’s not there? The Witcher will have failed him, then.

 _What if Jaskier dies in the market when you’re not here?_ He frowns, picking at the skin around his thumb until small pieces come loose and a drop of blood rolls down the side of his hand. He can’t stop the thoughts, can’t stop the constant visions and sounds and _feelings_ his mind keeps feeding to him. He can’t stop the despair and fear and anger at himself when he imagines Jaskier dying, all because Geralt was not there when the Bard needed him.

 _Wouldn’t be the first time. Definitely won’t be the last. You’ve always let him down, Geralt._ Another drop of blood hits the dirt between the cobblestones of the town square. He bites the inside of his cheek, over and over again, the pain grounding him in reality, in here and now.

He startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder, turning around as quickly as possible, hand on the hilt of his sword. He sighs when he sees Jaskier, eyebrows raised, hands in the air in surrender. “Wow, Geralt, sorry. Didn’t think I would startle you. You alright?”

Maybe Geralt has to ball his fists in an effort not to cry in relief. “It’s fine, you just…” _I thought you were dead, I thought you were hurt, I thought I’d never see you again_ “scared me, that’s all.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Right, well, yeah. Sorry I was away for so long, I needed to find a music shop for some wood polish for my lute. Haven’t been treating her very well, lately, you see-“ They continue walking as Jaskier describes everything he did in the past two hours or so in great detail.

Geralt tries to listen, he really does, but he gets distracted by the way Jaskier’s hands fly through the air as he talks, the way the sunlight shines on his – now significantly shorter – hair, the way something twinkles in his eyes when he talks about a thing he’s excited about. The way he can’t tear his eyes away from the Bard – relieved beyond belief that he’s alive, and there, and safe.

He blinks as Jaskier thrusts a notebook under his nose. The Bard looks at him expectantly and Geralt hates the fact that he now has to admit he actually may not have been listening to a word Jaskier said – no matter how much he wanted to. “Uh… what was that? I didn’t catch the last part…”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, and maybe Geralt sees a flash of hurt in his features, but maybe he’s just imagining things again. “Oh, typical Geralt, doesn’t listen to a single thing I say.”

Yeah, he’s definitely hurt.

“I do listen, I really do, I just… I got distracted at the end.” He looks around frantically, trying to find an excuse. “I uh…” his eyes fall on Roach, still loyally walking next to them “was just thinking Roach might need a new saddle.”

Jaskier doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he does look a lot less hurt, and _that’s already something._ “So what I was saying, before you got _distracted,_ was that I bought you this!”

He shoves the notebook towards Geralt again, and the Witcher takes it tentatively. “Why?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Just a little present. Seeing as you’re always so stingy with the details of your adventures-“

“They’re not adventures.”

“- I thought you might feel more comfortable writing them down. And if not, it’s always useful to have a notebook around, really.” Jaskier shrugs again.

Geralt looks at the notebook again. It’s bound in leather, with a ribbon serving as a bookmark and another serving as a pencil-holder. It looks expensive, even though he knows next to nothing about stationary prices. He frowns. _Thought Jaskier didn’t have much money left. And then he buys a present?_

He decides not to question it – he doesn’t want to come off as ungrateful. “Thank you.”

Jaskier smiles at the road in front of them. “You’re welcome, Geralt.”

He looks at the notebook again. He doesn’t think he’s going to be writing about his _adventures_ , but maybe putting his thoughts into words might ease his mind, for once. Maybe he’ll stop thinking about Jaskier so much, then.

_Let’s write a story. Be in my book._

They’re sitting by the campfire that night, and Jaskier yawns, stretching out a bit. “It’s sure been a long day. I could use some sleep.”

Geralt smiles. “Then go to sleep.”

Jaskier shrugs. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Why?” He frowns as Jaskier’s eyes droop a little – he’s clearly tired. He doesn’t understand why the Bard doesn’t simply go to bed. He doesn’t understand why he smells fear in his scent.

Jaskier shrugs again. “Just… don’t feel like it.”

Geralt sighs as the Bard sways sideways gently, eyes falling shut. “Jaskier,” the Bard blinks, then sits up straight again, “just go to sleep, it’ll be fine. There’s nothing to be scared about.”

Jaskier smiles unconvincingly. “Scared? I’m not scared, what makes you think that?”

 _Your scent. The way your eyes dart around. The way you wipe your hands on your trousers – your palms are sweating. The way your heartbeat has picked up. The way you tap your foot on the ground in a short one-two, three-four rhythm –_ he thinks. “No reason,” he says.

The Bard spreads his arms a bit. “See? Totally fine, here. Not scared or tired at all.”

Geralt sighs, and he knows he can’t say or do anything to convince him that he does know something’s off. _Well, you can, Geralt, you can tell him how in tune you are with his mannerisms, and how you can’t help but notice how fearful he is right now. But you’re just too scared to say it._ He pushes the thought away, picking up his new notebook.

Slowly, carefully, he takes the pencil from the ribbon that’s keeping it strapped to the side of the notebook – scared he might break it in his big hands. The pages are white, empty, as he puts the tip of the pencil against the paper. He doesn’t know what to write, really.

He looks up. Jaskier has fallen asleep, cheek pressed against the dirt. Geralt looks at the paper again.

 _“Tonight, you didn’t want to go to sleep,”_ he writes, _“I don’t know why. You smelled scared, and I could see you were, too. You always tap your foot too fast when you are, and the corner of your mouth pulls down a bit. You smell like steel and salt when you’re afraid. I hate that scent._

_You usually smell like strawberries and campfire smoke. That’s my favourite scent._

_You look peaceful now, as you sleep. You look a lot younger, less worried. Though, you always look beautiful, but you probably already know that. I still don’t say it enough._

_I say a lot of things not enough. That I’m glad you’re here and that you’re my friend. That I cherish every second with you. That I smell like steel and salt when I imagine losing you. ~~My mind does that too often.~~ _

_You look peaceful and happy now, but I do have to get you out of the dirt and onto your bedroll. Not looking forward to that, because it’s always hard to let you go again.”_

He closes the notebook, tucking the pencil back into the ribbon, stashing the thing at the bottom of his bag. He stands up, taking Jaskier’s bedroll, spreading it on the ground next to the fire. Then, he picks the Bard up, and strawberries and campfire smoke make his head light.

 _I was right._ It is hard to let go of Jaskier, once he’s laid the Bard on his bedroll.

_You’ve got to join me on my page. At least take a look._

_҉ ҉ ҉_

They find a contract for a pack of Drowners in the next town over. Jaskier sits on a log, near the stream the monsters were spotted, scribbling something in his own notebook, as Geralt prepares for the hunt.

He suspects it won’t be a difficult job – seeing as he can already smell the Drowners, and they’re not particularly smart or cunning monsters in the first place. He suspects he’ll be able to find and dispose of them within two hours, though it’ll take probably another hour to go back to the town with one of the monsters’ heads, to claim his reward from the Alderman.

It won’t pay a lot, though, but enough for some supplies that’ll last them a week or so.

He hasn’t taken a lot of contracts lately – he had been too busy trying to find Jaskier to do so, and although he does not regret the decision, he does worry about the way his coin pouch feels too light to be comfortable.

 _Maybe Jaskier will leave you once he realizes you can’t provide for him anymore._ He frowns and pushes the thought away, wincing slightly as he pulls the strap of his armour too tightly in his annoyance at his own mind.

Of course Jaskier won’t leave him. After all, this isn’t the first time they’ve had some money problems, and even then, Jaskier can provide for himself perfectly fine.

 _Except he can’t, can he? He hasn’t given a performance in ages, he told you. Why is that, you think?_ He grits his teeth as the little voice in his head continues whispering poison to him. _Because you hurt him. You hurt him so much he didn’t even want to sing anymore. See what you’ve done, Geralt? See what you always do to those you love? You bring misfortune wherever you go, and no matter how much you try to deny it, Jaskier is no exception._

_Never has been, never will be._

He squeezes his eyes shut, pushing his knuckles against them, trying to will the voice to stop – to stop talking, to stop hurting him like this, to just _stop._

“Geralt?” comes Jaskier’s voice from his left, and maybe he hears concern laced through, maybe he can slightly smell it in the air, but he knows it’s probably annoyance at his dramatics. “You okay?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt lowers his arms, letting them hang limply by his side, as the little voice in the back of his head keeps whispering things to him. _You’re not worthy of him, he deserves better than you, maybe you should just let the Drowners get you, it doesn’t matter, you don’t matter, nothing will change if you’re gone, as a matter of fact, things will probably be better when you’re gone-_

He nods, smiling lightly at the Bard. “Yeah, just have a headache.”

“Oh.” Jaskier frowns, and closes his notebook, laying it on the log next to him. “You want some painkillers? I’ve got some in my bag, if you need any.”

Geralt shakes his head before hoisting his swords onto his back. “I’m fine.” He lifts his head in the air, gently sniffing. The Drowner pack is two miles to the east – he can smell them. “Look after Roach,” he mutters, before walking away.

He stops at the edge of the clearing, turning back. Jaskier’s looking at his notebook again, back turned to Geralt. And maybe the Witcher feels a slight pang of hurt at the fact that the Bard didn’t say goodbye, or tell him to be careful, as he always used to do. Maybe he feels sad. Maybe he wonders why, and maybe the little voice in his head gives him a million different reasons, each one hurting more than the last.

And maybe he doesn’t.

He turns back around, starting his trek through the woods.

_Oh, where are your manners? You need some time?_

It’s nearly nightfall when he finally returns to the clearing, his coin pouch a little heavier, his hair wet from washing the Drowner blood off himself in a stream in the forest. He knows he sees Jaskier before the Bard sees him – due to his enhanced eyesight.

Jaskier’s pacing through the clearing, biting the nail of his right thumb, mumbling things Geralt can’t fully hear, under his breath. The Witcher does pick out a few words, like _late,_ and _coming back,_ and he figures this might be about him.

But probably not, he decides. After all, why would Jaskier be worried about him? This isn’t the first time he’s faced a pack of Drowners, and this isn’t the first time he’s come back late from a hunt. Jaskier’s never been worried all the other times, so why would he be now?

 _And you don’t deserve his worry, obviously -_ the little voice unhelpfully provides. He sighs, pushing it away, before walking into the clearing.

Jaskier immediately stops pacing, turning on his heel to look at the Witcher. “Ah, Geralt, there you are!” The worry has fallen away from his face, replaced with a cheerful smile – more cheerful than Geralt has seen Jaskier since they reunited. “I was getting quite worried you weren’t coming back, but I guess you obviously don’t want to leave Roach behind.”

“I don’t want to leave you behind, either.” Geralt closes his eyes, as regret immediately floods him. _Well done,_ the voice says, _your mouth doesn’t often outrun you, but you’ve truly outdone yourself this time. Now he’ll definitely leave – no one wants a clingy Witcher, least of all if it’s you._

Geralt opens his eyes when Jaskier laughs. The Bard walks towards him, clapping his hand on the Witcher’s shoulder, and suddenly Geralt can’t breathe anymore, hyperaware of the weight on his shoulder, of the warmth that seeps into his skin, of how close Jaskier is, of the strawberries and campfire smoke that fills his head and what’s left of his lungs.

“Glad to hear that, Geralt.” Jaskier turns back around, and Geralt’s knees nearly buckle under the weight of the absence the Bard’s hand leaves behind.

“Right.” Jaskier claps his hands, as he bends over one of Roach’s saddlebags. “What’s for dinner? We’ve got… dried meat,” he pulls a pack of dried meat out, putting it on the ground next to him, “uh… more dried meat, and…” he sighs “even _more_ dried meat!”

“I can try and catch a hare if you want.”

Jaskier shakes his head, taking the packet of dried meat from the ground, walking over to the log, sitting on it again. “No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” _Except Geralt does._

Jaskier looks up, as he opens the wrapping, eyebrows up expectantly. “Well, Witcher, what are you waiting for?” He taps his hand on the log next to him. “Sit down.”

Geralt blinks, and does as he’s told, sitting down tentatively, taking a piece of dried meat from the Bard. “So how’d the hunt go?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs. “Just a Drowner pack. Easy to dispose of, not much to tell.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You know, after spending over twenty years with me, you’d think you’d be able to tell a story better than this.”

“There is no story.”

Jaskier shrugs, taking a bite of meat. “If you say so,” he mumbles.

It’s quiet between them after that, the silence weighing down on Geralt heavily. His mind begins to wander once again, and he has to fight to keep that little voice away, though he knows that the second he lets his guard down, it will come whispering in his ear once more. He can feel it, hanging, hovering, at the edge of his mind, waiting, biding its time until it can poison him from the inside out again.

He wonders if it’ll be his undoing, one day, if this thing will be the cause of his demise. He supposes so – after all, he already feels like he’s unravelling bit by bit every time it whispers those words into his mind, into his heart.

There is only one thing – one _person_ stopping him from coming apart at the seams.

He glances to his side, and notices Jaskier is looking into the forest, staring at the darkness between the trees. Geralt wants to say something, wants Jaskier to look at him, wants those impossibly blue eyes to fill his mind along with the strawberries and campfire smoke, but no words come to mind.

Well, three do. But he can’t say those.

He can never say those.

Jaskier goes to sleep after a while, and Geralt remains on the log, looking at the notebook in his hand. He’s written down the date at the top of the page, but once again no words have come to mind, so he’s resorted to staring at Jaskier’s sleeping form.

Eventually, he sighs, and writes down a few sentences, before closing the book and hiding it away at the bottom of his bag.

_I feel like I can’t breathe when I look at you. ~~I think I know why.~~ I don’t know why._

_You thought I’d left without you. It seems like you don’t trust me enough to stay, like you haven’t decided whether I want you there or not, even though I was the one that searched you out._

_Let’s swap chests today. That might help you decide._

҉ ҉ ҉

He smiles as he watches Jaskier dramatically re-enact the story he’s singing about. Geralt knows he’s enjoying the attention, revelling in the way forty-something gazes are plastered to his form, following him around the room.

Geralt looks down at the notebook again, lying open on the table in front of him, barely illuminated by the candles in the centre of the tavern, as he taps the pencil against his lips, trying to think of what to write.

His thoughts have been becoming too much lately, the voice going from whispering to talking to shouting, no longer letting itself be pushed away, dominating every part of his day to the point he can barely hear anything or anyone else.

 _You’re a monster,_ it says now, _even if he sings about you as if you’re some hero, you’re not. You’re a monster, a mutant, a horrible person. Not worthy not worthy not worthy-_

He bites down on the skin next to the nail of his thumb, only letting go when he tastes blood. He glances up again, but Jaskier is enraptured in his performance, distracted by the cheers and the encouragement and the richly flowing coin. Not paying attention to Geralt.

_What does it matter? You don’t deserve it._

He shakes his head, putting the tip of the pencil on the paper. He steals another look at Jaskier, then starts writing. The words don’t appear in his mind before he writes them, they just flow out of him onto the paper, the tip of the pencil dancing in lines that are familiar to his muscles but foreign to his eyes, and it takes a while until he recognizes them as letters and words and sentences, long after he’s already put them down.

_You look radiant when you’re performing. Your fingers dance across the strings and there’s a slight glean of sweat on your skin that shimmers in the candlelight, though all the light in the world can’t compete with the brightness in your eyes, the joy on your face, the radiance of your smile._

_When you perform, you shine brighter than the sun and you put the stars and moon to shame._

_I don’t know why you’ve chosen me as the inspiration to so many of your songs – most of the stuff you sing about, you had to make up yourself, so really, the stories I provide can’t be the reason, I think. So, I wonder why you stick by my side, why you put up with me, really. I don’t deserve it._

_I don’t deserve you and you deserve better._

_You’re performing right now. You told me it was the first time in a long while, and I know that’s my fault. I’m sorry for that, I’m sorry for everything. I don’t deserve you and you deserve better. Better than my bitterness, my insecurities, my anger. Better than me._

_Please, never ever let me diminish your light again, please don’t ever stop singing because of me. I don’t deserve that and you deserve better._

_I remember that time you got angry with me because I called your voice a fillingless pie. I was angry with you at the moment, and I was tired, but I would never insult your voice – because every insult would be a blatant lie. You deserve better and I don’t deserve you._

_You never did give me the opportunity to tell you the crust is my favourite part of a pie._

He closes his book again, and looks up as the crowd bursts out in applause, and Jaskier bows as deeply as he can with his lute in the way. Finally, those radiant blue eyes look at Geralt, and the Bard smiles at him.

Geralt can’t help but smile back.

_Would you be so kind as to fall in love with me? You see, I’m trying._

Jaskier flops down on the chair in front of him, setting the lute against the table carefully. “Woo! It’s been a while since I’ve performed like that.” He laughs, and Geralt smiles back, pushing a plate towards him over the table, filled with food. “Ah, thank you,” Jaskier mutters, before shoving half a potato in his mouth unceremoniously. “’m Starving,” he mumbles with his mouth full.

Geralt simply shakes his head a bit, draining the last of his ale. He flags down the barmaid, ordering two more beers.

Jaskier smiles at him, cheeks round with food. “What’d you think?”

“Of the performance?” Jaskier nods enthusiastically. “Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes in fake annoyance, swallowing his food. He points a finger at Geralt. “Don’t you start again with the nondescript answers. Come on,” he whines, “three words or less.”

Geralt smiles again, as he remembers their first meeting, when Jaskier had said the exact same thing. “Not bad.”

Jaskier gasps dramatically, hand on his chest. “How dare you!” He points at Geralt again. “We both know it was a lot better than ‘not bad’.”

Geralt shrugs. “Then why’d you ask me?” he asks innocently, paying the barmaid when she brings them the two ales, pushing one across the table towards Jaskier.

“Geralt,” the Bard says, tilting his head to the side a bit, “you know I care about your opinion.”

The Witcher frowns, looking into his cup, at the reflection of his own unnaturally yellow eyes. “Why?” It’s quiet for a few seconds and he looks up at Jaskier, who’s looking at him, dumbfounded, for once. “Why do you care about my opinion?”

Jaskier blinks, then shrugs, smiling a bit. “Why not, really?”

Geralt frowns again. “Hmm.”

“So,” Jaskier’s voice is light and airy, though the Witcher can hear the sharp edges, nonetheless, “what were you writing, earlier?”

Geralt looks up again, blinking. “What?” he chokes out. He hadn’t noticed Jaskier looking at him, hadn’t realized the Bard had seen him writing. “It’s… it’s nothing.”

“Can I read it?”

“No.” It comes out harsher than expected, and Geralt feels his heart cringe inside his chest when a hurt look flashes across Jaskier’s face. But he cannot ever let the Bard read the pages, cannot ever let him see the words he doesn’t have the courage to say out loud. “No,” he says again, quieter this time.

Jaskier shrugs, his smile forced, eyes flat and tired. “If that’s what you want…”

Geralt goes to bed early that night, giving Jaskier the rest of his ale.

_I know you know that I like you, but that’s not enough. So if you will, please fall in love with me._

҉ ҉ ҉

_I like the way you smell like sleep, in the morning. I don’t know how to describe it other than that. Just sleep. It’s like that feeling when you’ve slept in too long, and you can barely keep your eyes open. It’s like going to bed after a long day on the road. It’s like laying in a meadow in the sunlight, drifting away on the clouds and the breeze._

_I like the way you stretch out, in the morning. When your joints pop and you make that little content noise at the back of your throat. When you relax again, and bury your face in the pillows, curling in on yourself, sighing happily._

_I like the way your hair looks, in the morning. All ruffled up, brown curls in early sunlight. It looks incredibly soft, and I have to fight not to touch it every time I see it._

_I like the way your eyes look, in the morning. Somehow, they’re a bit paler than during the rest of the day, but still as brilliantly blue as the summer sky. They light up the room better than any sunrise could._

_I like you in the morning._

He looks up, tucking the notebook in his pocket as Jaskier sits across him at the table, yawning a bit. “What were you writing?” he asks.

Geralt shakes his head. “It’s not important.”

Jaskier shrugs, leaning his forearm on the table as he looks back, lifting his other arm to call for the barmaid to order breakfast. Their knuckles are nearly brushing, and Geralt’s heartbeat picks up a little.

He gazes up, and sees Jaskier looking as well, before pulling his hand back a bit. His heartbeat is the same, steady rhythm as it is every morning.

_Oh, do me a favour, can your heartrate rise a little?_

_I like the way you smell like sunshine, in the afternoon. I don’t know how to describe it other than that. Just sunshine. It’s like when you feel the sun on your face after a long, rainy day. It’s like when the wildflowers next to the road bloom. It’s like when you’re running through a field, for the sake of running, chest heaving when you finally coming to a still, looking at the other person with a smile on your face._

_I like the way you’re so full of energy, in the afternoon. When you’re either chatting or humming or singing or playing a little tune on your lute. When you ask a billion questions, most of which seem to be coming out of nowhere. ~~I would love to know what goes on in your head sometimes~~. When you pick flowers and wander off the path and laugh when I tell you not to stray._

_I like the way your hands look, in the afternoon. When they’re dancing across the strings of your lute. When they’re waving through the air, as you tell a story. When they’re fidgeting with the fabric of your expensive doublets, pulling at the buttons a bit. I wish I could hold your hand, one day._

_I like the way your eyes look, in the afternoon. Deep blue, yet brighter than the sky could ever even dream of being. The way they shine when you’re excited, the way they’re always looking at all the little perfections this world has to offer, at the little things most people don’t notice._

_I like you in the afternoon._

He has to buy a new notebook in the next town over, this one already full of his ramblings and secret thoughts. Jaskier looks at him weirdly, but shrugs anyway.

It’s small in the store, and Geralt’s chest lightly touches Jaskier’s back when he moves past. The Witcher’s heartbeat picks up, Jaskier’s doesn’t.

_Oh, do me a favour, can your heartrate rise a little?_

_I like the way you smell like triumph, in the evening. I don’t know how to describe it other than that. Just triumph. It’s like when you’ve made it inside just before it starts raining. It’s like when you kick a rock and it flies far, far away. Like when you’ve made it through a particularly hard day, not letting the negative thoughts get to you, for once, and finally being able to rest your head._

_I like the way you’re so full of music, in the evening. Whether you’re at an inn or a tavern, or sitting next to the campfire in the middle of nowhere, you’re singing or you’re humming or you’re tapping your feet, drumming your fingers on your leg. When you’re writing new song ideas in your notebook, the tip of your tongue sticking out of your mouth, just like it always does when you’re concentrating._

_I like your smile, in the evening. Whether you’re grinning wildly during a performance or smirking at a stupid joke you just made or smiling softly when you’re eating good food. When you grow more and more tired, but always, you’re smiling._

_I like your eyes, in the evening. Dark blue, barely visible in the shadows. Always looking for light – whether you’re staring into the campfire, or fixated on a candle, or looking up at the stars._

_I like you in the evening._

Jaskier stretches out as Geralt stores the notebook in the bottom of his bag. He smiles at Jaskier, slipping into the soft bed, next to him.

“I really do wonder what you’re writing in that little notebook of yours, Witcher,” Jaskier mutters, burrowing into the blankets.

Geralt shrugs, staring at the dark ceiling above him. “It’s really nothing.”

Jaskier scoffs. “I doubt that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be writing it down, would you?”

“Hmm. Go to sleep.”

He hears Jaskier chuckle lightly. “Alright then, keep your secrets.”

Geralt feels the Bard’s hot breath against his arm as Jaskier starts falling asleep. His heart skips a beat when he realizes how close they are. Jaskier’s doesn’t.

_Oh, do me a favour, can your heartrate rise a little?_

_I like the way you feel like home, at night._

He wakes up, Jaskier’s head against his chest, Geralt’s arms around him. And it may be the happiest he’s felt in a while, with Jaskier in his arms, with his warmth against his skin, with the scent of strawberries and campfire smoke surrounding him.

Jaskier stirs a bit, burrowing his face against Geralt’s chest. The Bard freezes, when he realizes what’s happening, and he looks up at Geralt. The Witcher’s heartbeat picks up.

So does Jaskier’s.

_Oh, do me a favour._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I don't think I'm gonna finish the fic the way I planned it. I'm just so not inspired for it, and if I do force myself to write it, it's just gonna end up very bad. I'm sorry.
> 
> I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan.

**Author's Note:**

> Also I'm on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3 if you wanna talk, or follow me, or whatever. I post edits there that I'm very proud of, so check it out if you're in the neighbourhood!


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